Spun
by Capaldelight
Summary: After Death in Heaven, Clara is at loose ends until she meets a man who looks exactly like the doctor, notorious spin doctor, Malcolm Tucker. They start a relationship but things get very complicated when the Doctor comes back into Clara's life only to find her dating his doppelganger. Who will Clara choose? The Doctor or Malcolm?This is an AU fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Spun**

**Pairing:** Twelve/Clara and Malcom Tucker/Clara. This is a love triangle!

**Note:** This takes place after the events of _Dark Water_/_Death in Heaven._ This also takes place during the early part of Season 4 of _The Thick of It. _This is an AU fic…one in which the Doctor and Malcolm Tucker exist in the same universe. And wouldn't that be a wonderful universe to live in?!

**Description: **After _Death in Heaven_, Clara is at loose ends until she meets a man who looks exactly like the doctor, notorious spin doctor, Malcolm Tucker. They start a relationship but things get very complicated when the Doctor comes back into Clara's life only to find her dating his doppelganger. Who will Clara choose? The Doctor or Malcolm?

_**Three Months after Death in Heaven….**_

Clara Oswald was alone.

There was no other way to describe it. Sure, she still had her father, although he'd gotten remarried and they barely saw each other these days. There was Gran, of course, but she had her own social life at the retirement community, having lunch with the ladies and playing Bridge.

She'd lost both the Doctor and Danny in the space of a couple of weeks and Clara hadn't recovered from the shock of it all. Suddenly, the two lives she'd been leading had come to a halt, leaving her in a state of inertia.

She'd returned the boy Danny had sent back through the portal to his grateful parents, with the assistance of UNIT. Then, she'd held a proper funeral for Danny, although it had been difficult to arrange with the general hysteria surrounding the Cybermen. Kate had pulled a few strings and they'd eventually been able to lay him to rest. There hadn't been anything left to bury, but the symbolism had been important. She wanted to say goodbye to him, take the time to mourn him. It had helped with the grief and the guilt.

Then, her life had gone back to normal. Well, the new normal. She went to work, she slept, and then did it all over again. Every single day, like an automaton. Clara kept herself busy. She'd completed several projects at her flat, things she'd always meant to do, but somehow never got around to. She'd rearranged all of her books, DVDs, and CDs in alphabetical order. She'd reorganized the kitchen cupboards. Clara had even gone through her wardrobe, culling a group to donate, and purging another subset to the rubbish bin.

Yes, she had kept herself extremely busy, fanatically so. Because when she wasn't doing something, she had time to think. About Danny. About the Doctor. Then, a rush of pain would come and make her curl into a little ball. She'd let both men down. She hadn't been able to love Danny the way he deserved to be loved and she'd actually betrayed the Doctor to try to save Danny's life. She'd hurt both of them.

The weekends were the most difficult. Normally, she would have been out with Danny or gone off traveling with the Doctor. Now, she had far too many hours to fill all by herself. She'd taken to sightseeing around the city, Oyster card in hand. She'd people watch, get a coffee or some tea, and distract herself with different sights and sounds. It beat staring at the four walls, brooding about how it had all gone wrong.

Until one day, on one of her sojourns through the city, she ran in to the Doctor.

Inexplicably, she found him on the corner of a street, shouting into a mobile phone. Under one arm, he had an unruly mass of papers. Instead of his black coat with the red lining, he had on a grey suit. His face was furrowed, eyebrows trembling with rage.

Fearing she'd somehow hallucinated a vision him, she crept closer, eying him surreptitiously. People streamed by him on the sidewalk and they all looked wide-eyed and a bit fearful, darting away from him hastily.

That meant other people could see him. So, not a hallucination then.

Thankfully, he seemed preoccupied with the call, facing the street opposite them. As she got within hearing distance, she heard him shout "Fuck off!" into the mouthpiece before shoving the phone in his pocket once more. Then, he commenced grumbling under his breath.

_Fuck off?_ Clara blinked._ That_ was a new one. Perhaps he'd picked up more colorful language on Gallifrey? Regardless, it was her Doctor and he'd come to back to her. It had to be.

Without another thought, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him tight. Even though she knew he despised hugs, she couldn't help herself. It felt like years since she'd seen him last.

"Doctor!" she cried.

He peered down at her, eyes widening, looking stunned. She'd been expecting him to push her away, complaining loudly about the hug. Or maybe he'd give her a quick pat and tease her about the overly affectionate display. But dumbfounded, she didn't expect.

His arms remained at his sides, but he peered down at her, watching her carefully. A bemused expression finally settled on his face. "I'm not the Doctor, sweetheart. I think you have me confused with some other, evidently luckier bastard." He looked her up and down then, a distinctly salacious glint in his eye.

Clara abruptly released her hold on him, pushing back to stare at him wide-eyed. None of this was right. The Doctor didn't use language like_ fuck_ and _bastard, _not to mention_ sweetheart_. He simply didn't do terms of endearment, not anymore. And he certainly didn't stare at her like _that_, like he thought she might be particularly tasty.

Biting her lip, she leaned forward and pressed her head against his chest, listening for those dueling heartbeats. But she only heard one.

"Doctor?" she asked, eyes wide as she stared up at him, baffled.

"No. Not the Doctor," he said patiently. He cocked his head to the side. "Are you okay, sweetheart? Do you need some help?"

"I…I don't know," Clara whispered and to her horror, hot tears began to spill from her eyes. She thought she'd had the Doctor back, but this man couldn't possibly be him. Yet, they could be twins. She honestly didn't understand what was going on.

"Oh it figures!" he griped. "A pretty young thing presses up against me and she's fucking mental."

"I'm not mental! I'm sad, you ass!" she said crossly as she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

Doctor Lookalike grinned at her response, his eyes filled with mischief. "Why? Because this Doctor bloke ran out on you? Do yourself a favor and don't_ ever_ chase a man. Women get the shaft in life enough as it is, what with having to piss sitting down, breaking your ankles wearing fucking high heels, and smearing makeup on your faces every morning. At the very least, you should make the bastards do all the work, sweetheart."

"My name is Clara, not sweetheart," she managed to say."And it's not like that. The Doctor is just my friend. That's it."

"Don't lie to yourself. You're fucking crying about him in the middle of the street, yeah? That means he is much more than a friend." Then, he paused, sweeping his eyes over her once more. "Clara what?" he asked.

"Clara Oswald," she said softly.

"And what do you do for a living?" Just like that, his friendly demeanor dropped and he assessed her coolly.

"I'm a school teacher at Coal Hill. I teach English."

"A school teacher, eh?" He grinned, and his charm reappeared as quickly as it had vanished. Had he been wondering if she was a threat of some sort? "I can see that. You have an innocent look about you."

"Do I really?" Clara said, raising her chin. "Appearances can be deceiving, you know." She hadn't been innocent in a very, very long time. The Doctor had changed her in many ways and not all of them good.

"Are they now?" He gave her an appreciative smile, clearly enjoying himself.

"Yes, sometimes. And who are you?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he said, gesturing to his face. "You don't know? My face was all over the fucking telly a few months ago."

She scanned his features once more. Nope. She didn't make any connections that didn't involve the Doctor. "No."

"Have you been living under a fucking rock?" he asked incredulously.

"No, I've been visiting another planet," she shot back. "You just look like the Doctor to me."

He raised a brow. "Well, I'm a doctor of sorts. A spin doctor. Tell you what, Clara Oswald. I'll buy you a cup of coffee, yeah? You look like you could use some cheering up and I was on my way to get one when you pressed up against me."

"I gave you a hug," she said defensively. "Don't make it sound like that."

"Like what?" he said, his lips curving into a very wicked grin.

"Like I came on to you or something. That's not what happened. Besides, I thought you were another man, so it wasn't about_ you_ at all."

He chuckled. "Yeah, well, the truth has versions, sweetheart, and I prefer mine. Don't you worry though. I'll soon have you sorted. You won't be able to think about other men when I get done with you."

"I wouldn't bet on it." He was arrogant, just like the Doctor and it made her laugh. She hadn't laughed in months. "Fine, we'll have a coffee, but I'm buying since I waylaid you on the street."

"Didn't you hear me earlier? Make me work for it."

She sighed. "Fine. You're buying me a coffee and I want a pastry, too. But before we do that, tell me your name. I don't eat with strangers."

He offered her a hand and she shook it. "I'm Malcolm Tucker, good to meet you, Clara Oswald."

**12**

Twenty minutes later, they were seated in the coffee house. He'd ordered cappuccinos and Malcolm had bought them each a chocolate croissant. Although, he told her his homemade croissants were better than the cafés.

Clara didn't quite know what to make of him. For example, she didn't expect him to be a foodie. And oddly enough, she found his foul mouth charming. It was the most, er, creative swearing she'd ever heard. It was nearly an art form. She also couldn't quite decide if spending time with the Doctor's doppelganger was soothing or a form of self torture. She couldn't look at the man without seeing her friend. But eventually, she relaxed a bit, allowed herself to enjoy his Scottish accent. She also loved watching his expressive eyebrows.

In short, he made her feel at home. It was a lot like being with the Doctor once more, albeit one who cursed a blue streak. She found some comfort in his presence.

"I'm not him, you know," he said quietly.

Clara bit her lower lip. "Sorry."

"I don't want you sitting there, wishing I was that twat you seem to love so much. I'm fucking giving you my best stuff over here, both barrels and then some. I'm fucking Romeo without the poison and the dodgy relatives."

"I know," she said. "But I can't help but compare. Yet, I know you aren't him."

"Don't fucking say it like that!" he growled.

"Like what?"

"All misty-eyed and nostalgic. Since me and this Doctor fellow are both devilishly handsome, it comes down to personality and since that wanker left you unattended, I'm clearly the better choice."

"Choice for what?"

"I thought you'd worked it out already."

Clara frowned. "Worked what out?"

"Do you think I'm in the habit of taking mad women to coffee for the fun of it? I'm about to ask you for a date."

She flushed, not really expecting that. "Oh."

"Oh?" He looked her up and down once more, heat in his gaze. She swore she could almost feel his eyes ghosting over skin, leaving warmth in their wake. "I'm aware I'm twice your age, but since you grabbed me in the middle of the street and pressed your pretty face against my chest, and wrapped your arms around my waist, I thought you might like my company. "

She laughed again at his characterization of their meeting. "You know, it gets dirtier every time you tell it."

"Wait until I tell it a third time. It'll be a stag film by then."

She ignored his provocative comment. "As for the rest, I know you are a bit older, and you're actually younger than him. Much, much younger."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. So you do like older men. Do you have daddy issues then?" he asked sagely.

She scowled. "Watch it! My father and I get on just fine, you know."

He spread his hands wide. "No judgment here, sweetheart. I'd be happy to help you work through those issues. Two or three times a night, if you've a mind to."

Clara gasped, not missing his implication. In most situations, she was the one who approached men, started flirting with them first. Danny had been painfully awkward. She'd had to practically stalk him to get a first date. And the Doctor, well, the bow-tied Doctor, anyway, he'd also been shy and nervous around her. She'd been the one who instigated their flirty friendship. Sadly, it had never went anywhere. Malcolm, on the other hand, was definitely the pursuer. That was totally new territory for her.

He continued on. "So, if you don't have daddy issues, you must have had a formative sexual experience with an older man."

Clara flushed. Oh, yes, he was _definitely_ not the Doctor. "I don't think that's any of your business," she informed him primly.

"I mean to make it my business." He leaned forward, wintry blue eyes fastened on hers. "Come on then, don't keep me in suspense."

Oh, hell, she could tell he wouldn't just drop it. She got the feeling not many people said no to him. "In fact, the first man I…um…dated was a professor of mine."

"I knew it!" he crowed. "How old were you?"

"Nineteen and he was forty-two." Clara couldn't help but grin, remembering. She'd slept with her medieval literature professor after the class had ended. Again,she'd had to convince him to date her as well. They'd carried on for a few months until it had fizzled out, but she didn't regret it at all. While not strictly forbidden, professor/student relationships were frowned upon, so they'd had to keep it secret, which made the whole thing even more exciting. He was so handsome, recently divorced, worldly, with salt and pepper hair.

"A bit more than twice your age, just like me," Malcolm said, with an approving nod. "So, you're having dinner with me then."

"Am I? I don't remember you asking me," she murmured, grinning at him over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Didn't have to," he countered. "We both know you want to go out with me."

Damn, she hated to admit it, but he was right about that. She'd have to work on her poker face, apparently. This was all happening so fast it made her dizzy. "I'm not agreeing with you, but if I was interested, _when_ did you have in mind?" she inquired.

"Tonight, of course."

"Wow, you move fast."

"Oh, Clara, you've no idea. I'm a man of action. You might rethink it, if I give you too much time to ponder. In my line of work, I've learned to move forward very quickly."

"What exactly do you do for a living, by the way?" she asked.

His lips curled. "My job title should be Master of the Dark Arts. You can Google me later and find out, but not until _after_ we have dinner. I don't want you running away before you see my culinary skills."

"You're going to make me dinner?" Clara hadn't anticipated that.

"Why the fuck not? I cook a better meal than restaurants anyway. Besides, I hate nosy fuckers." He gestured to the tables around them and sure enough, several people were gawking at them. They guiltily turned away as she stared back. Clara hadn't even noticed, she'd been so intent on him.

He tore off a scrap of paper and wrote down his mobile number and his address. "Come to this address tonight at six." He frowned. "No, make that seven. I need time to prepare after work."

Clara hesitated. Having dinner with him in a crowded restaurant was one thing, but did she really feel comfortable being all alone with him in his house? What if he was some sort of killer or rapist or something? "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Ah, you're wondering if I'm a pervert or a psycho killer, aren't you, sweetheart? Don't worry. I'm quite harmless. Well, mostly. I only maim people psychologically," he said with an unholy grin. "And that only applies to the dimwitted fucks I work with. I'm actually fairly easygoing with everyone else."

Somehow, she didn't believe that last bit. "I don't know. I just met you."

"Tell you what. You bring whatever weapons you like, yeah? Tasers, fucking pepper sprays, knives, whatever you got. I want you to feel safe with me."

She laughed again, not expecting that. "And what about you? Aren't you afraid for your safety?"

"Well, if you like a little slap and tickle, I don't mind," he said smoothly. "But save it for the bedroom." He winked at her.

Clara blew out a breath. She sat there, momentarily stunned and weirdly turned on.

"Now give me your mobile number. I have to go suck out someone's soul in about twenty minutes." He seemed a bit too excited by that prospect, one tick shy of running his hands together in glee. He handed her his Blackberry and she punched in her number for him.

Soul sucking? "Um, was that a metaphor or something?"

"No, it isn't." Malcolm stood up and then bent over her, cupping her cheek, his face mere centimeters from her own.

A languid warmth spread through her body, just from one little touch.

"You missed just a little chocolate. Here, let me get that for you." He leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth, his tongue darting out to lap the chocolate away.

Clara shuddered, feeling like she'd been struck by lightning or something.

He stood again, grinning at her reaction. "See you at seven, Clara Oswald. Don't be late." With that, he walked away.

**12**

Clara arrived at his home a couple minutes before she was expected. It was intimidating with its wrought iron gate and security system, situated in a posh section of the city. She hadn't Googled him, as he'd asked because she was afraid she'd talk herself out of coming.

Frankly, Clara was astonished at how much she wanted to see Malcolm again. She'd actually spent the day in a pleasant haze, thinking about what he'd said, replaying their conversation in her mind. She hadn't felt this good in weeks and didn't want to let go of it. Or maybe she was just lonely? Whatever the reason, she wanted to see him again.

She rang a bell at the gate. Malcolm's voice came over the intercom. "Yeah?"

"It's Clara," she answered.

"Come in!" A buzzer rang and she proceeded through the gate to the front door and he flung it open before she could reach it. "Sorry about all the security. The gossip rags sent out a bunch of _I Spy _shitheads a few months ago, taking pictures and tossing off in my bushes so I had to upgrade the security or wash cum off the evergreens every morning." He winked at her.

Clara just laughed nervously, unsure what to make of his vulgarity. He moved aside and she walked into the foyer. "It smells amazing in here!" she said. "You weren't exaggerating about being a good cook."

"I wouldn't lie. About _that,_ anyway," he said with a grin. "You like curry, yeah?"

She nodded.

His house had been decorated, which made it stand out from the bachelor pads she'd seen over the years. Even Danny's flat had a sort of frat guy vibe to it with mismatched furnishings and posters from college. Malcolm's place had a distinctly masculine vibe with hues of beige and blue. Everything had been color coordinated and carefully matched.

"Come on then." He escorted her to the kitchen and gave her a glass of wine while she sat at the breakfast bar and watched. He had an elegant way of moving, his hands were very graceful as he tossed in spices, flipped items in the pan.

"So, what kind of weaponry did you bring with you?"

Clara showed him a small silver cylinder on her key ring about the size of tube of lipstick. The Doctor had given it to her for protection. "It's a laser."

He frowned at it. "You brought a fucking cat toy with you? What? Are you gonna have me chase it around the linoleum while you runaway?"

"It's a cat toy that could cut your kitchen in two," she said coolly.

"Is it then?" His eyes widened and she could tell she'd surprised him, pleasantly so.

"Don't worry though; I had to promise the Doctor I wouldn't actually use it on someone. Its supposed to be for intimidation purposes only."

He raised a brow, clearly impressed. "Yeah, well, I say if you've got a death ray, you should use it on any bastard who has the misfortune to earn your ire." He filled two plates with basmati rice and chicken vindaloo. Then, he sat next to her at the bar. "Go on then. Tuck in."

It was delicious. He really hadn't been joking about being a cook. He refilled her glass of red wine, as well as poured one for himself. She found that she liked him and not just because of his resemblance to the Doctor. There were some similarities. Both men were clever, both of them arrogant, both of them well-spoken although Malcolm's language was a lot more colorful, and obviously the physical resemblance. But many differences too. Something that came immediately to mind was his sex appeal. The man had it in spades and the Doctor sort of lived in his head most of the time, like a mad scientist or something. She liked Malcom's domesticity as well. The Doctor had never cooked anything for her.

After they finished eating, Malcolm ushered them into the living room. They sat on his couch and he placed an arm on the back of the sofa directly behind her.

"Let's get down to it then. Are you still hung up on this Doctor fellow?"

She sighed. "No. I keep telling you. He and I were just friends." Okay, technically, that wasn't all the way true. The younger version of the Doctor fancied her and she had a crush on him as well. Not that she could explain_ that_ to him without sounding mental.

"Yet, you admit to liking older men," he said, rubbing his chin with one lean hand.

"Yes, but I didn't date the Doctor. I happened to be dating someone else at the time."

His face fell. "Fuck me! There's a boyfriend, too?"

Clara turned to face him on the couch. "_Was_ a boyfriend. You remember the metal men?"

"Can't fucking forget that fiasco," he said tiredly. "Mopping up political fuck ups is hard enough, let alone intergalactic ones. We had a city full of stompy Iron Man knock offs terrorizing the town and I had clean up that shit storm for a month. People calling for hearings, demanding someone be held accountable for that shit, like we can be held responsible for act of alien."

Clara shook her head. "Well, anyway, Danny died just before the invasion and he became one of the Cybermen."

All at once, his anger dissipated and she could read genuine sympathy on his face. "I'm sorry," he said softly, squeezing her hand.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"I know this must be difficult, but are you ready to put yourself out there, then?"

"You mean date?"

He nodded. "Yes, are you ready for that? It's been what? A little over three months?"

"I don't know." Clara sighed. "You know, I swore I would never feel anything for another man when he died. But, I think I might have been mistaken."

"That was probably grief talking," he said gently. "You are a very young woman. You have decades ahead of you and that's a very long time to be alone. Trust me."

"Have you ever married?" she asked curiously.

"No," he said, and she could see the sadness in his eyes. "I don't regret much, but that's one of them. I would have liked to have had a wife and children."

"You still can," she said, placing her hand over his. He had long-fingered elegant hands.

He laughed that off. "No, I'm afraid I'm a bit long in the tooth for that sort of thing, but that doesn't mean I don't like to date. In fact, I would like to see you again." He brought her fingers to his mouth and brushed his lips over her knuckles.

Clara shivered. "I'd like that, too."

He grinned and it was masculine, triumphant, and more than a little hot. "It's settled then. Does Saturday work for you? At seven?'

"Yes, that sounds good. But I think its about time for me to be heading home." She checked her watch. "I have an early morning teacher conference before school."

"I was thinking you might like to stay the night with me?"

Clara gasped in surprise. Now _that _was bold. "Don't you think that's a little soon?" Clara got to her feet and made her way to the front door.

"Evidently not." Malcolm stood up as well and trailed her. "I told you, I'm a man of action. Why wait for something to happen when I can make it happen?"

"Yes, well, you won't be making_ that_ happen tonight."

Malcolm invaded her space and she backed up until she touched the wall. He pressed his palm to it and then leaned down. "Make what happen?" he teased. "I only asked you to stay the night. I have every intention of being a perfect gentlemen," he murmured as he lowered his head.

_Is he going to kiss me? Do I want him to? _Clara felt a delicious sort of anticipation begin to build. "Oh, really? You just wanted a sleepover?"

"Well, I was thinking I'd shag you unconscious first, then I'll give you a bit of cuddle, followed by making you breakfast the next morning. There. That's very gentlemanly, isn't it?"

Clara laughed, partly in shock, partly pleased by his outrageous behavior.

Then, Malcolm stole a kiss. He pressed his mouth to hers, gentle at first and then much more insistent, entreating her lips to open for him. When they did, he tasted her, his tongue dueling with hers. Until she wound her arms around him. He pulled her in against his body and sunk his hands into her hair, kissing her deeply.

When he finally pulled back, she felt like her knees were going to buckle.

Malcolm licked his lips. "Goodnight, Miss Oswald. It's been a pleasure."

He escorted her to the door and Clara left his apartment with a spring in her step and stupid grin on her face.

She couldn't wait for Saturday.


	2. Chapter 2

**Spun 2/?**

**Warning:** Rated M for sexual and sensual content, as well as Malcolm sweary nature.

**Note:** This chapter features Twelve and Clara, though there is some musing about Malcolm.

Clara had gone to bed after leaving Malcolm's house the night before and made her early morning meeting. She'd spent most of the day in a sort of haze, a date hangover if you will. She'd drifted through her day, not really giving her work her full attention.

It had been ages since she'd done that...not since she'd first met the Doctor.

When it came time to leave, she couldn't find the will to linger in her classroom, working on the seemingly endless stacks of marking she accrued, or even lesson planning. She'd ducked out, stopped for some gourmet take away along with a bottle of red, and scampered back to her flat to Google Malcolm.

_Heart of Darkness…_

That was the news crawler, describing Malcolm Tucker from the news snippet she'd found on You Tube. Apparently, he worked as an "enforcer" and "spin doctor" for the Prime Minister. She had no idea he had that much power. The articles she'd found had been equally disparaging about his character, and described him in colorful terms: Iago with a Blackberry, "the physical demeanor and political instincts of a velociraptor", and one article equated his authority with "raw alcohol" that was both "corrosive" and "cleansing".

"Blimey," she whispered.

To her, he certainly hadn't come off as all _that_ harsh. Sure, he had been rough around the edges. He cursed, and he'd been straightforward to the point of rudeness. And, yes, for a moment or two, he'd assessed her coolly, without any sort of emotion flitting across his stony expression.

But he'd also been kind. He'd bought her coffee and made her dinner, genuinely took an interest in Danny's death, and offered her sympathy. Clearly, Malcolm was a complex man, one who required nuance to fully appreciate both his finer and lesser qualities.

"And who does _that_ remind you of?" she muttered to herself.

They didn't call the Doctor the "Oncoming Storm" for nothing. Particularly, this new incarnation of the Doctor. He could be short-tempered, ill-mannered, insufferably arrogant, and a laundry list of other less than savory characteristics. He could also be incredibly kind. Like the time he'd offered to help her rescue Danny from death itself, even after she'd attempted to drug him and orce him to do the very same thing.

He'd forgiven her without a qualm.

But a small and rather vocal part of her wondered if that darkness in Malcolm had attracted her to him in the first place. While traveling with the Doctor, she'd developed a penchant for lying, a dangerous adrenaline junkie habit, and a tendency to see the big picture…even at the cost of human lives. But she had a feeling Malcolm wouldn't condemn her for those flaws. He might even appreciate them. Unlike the knew it pained him to see her become more like the damage had been done, there was no going back. She fundamentally wasn't the same girl from Blackpool.

Even though he had been a big influence on her, it had taken her a long time to actually understand _him._ The first few weeks she'd been with this older version, she'd longed for the bow-tied man. She couldn't help but compare them and found her Scottish Doctor lacking. She missed the dashing young man who used to flirt with her shamelessly, and find excuses to touch her.

Then, she got to know him again, realized he cared for her in his own way. So, what if wasn't romantic? He loved her, cared for her, just as he had before, albeit in a non-romantic way. Until she'd lost him, too. Ironic in a way. She'd lost the Doctor twice and both times hurt.

_I miss him._

She shook her head, trying to dispel the sudden sadness that gripped her. It had been three long months since she'd seen him and it felt like years. Clara missed so many things about him. His childlike glee at discovering something new, like the ever shrinking TARDIS. Or the way he'd do something completely surprising like fence with Robin Hood and actually beat the legendary swordsman. God help her, she even missed his grumpiness because it was sort of cute in a grouchy way.

No point in dwelling on all that now. The Doctor was gone. She had to find a way to move on with her life. This inertia was crippling.

Contemplating her life, Clara poured herself a glass of wine and resolutely began to eat her dinner.

Two hours and two very generous glasses of wine later, Clara felt better, much better in fact. Her head felt sufficiently swimmy, so she couldn't dwell on unpleasant feelings. She'd taken off her fussy work clothes and stripped down to a camisole and her knickers. She really should look for a nightgown, but she couldn't be bothered with it now.

Besides, who would see her? No one.

Clara snuggled down in bed with her wine. She thought about Malcolm and their date later on in the week and it made her smile. While he might be a bit difficult, she tended to like difficult men. She'd put up with the Doctor, even though she had the urge to slap him all the time. She hadn't read anything in those articles that would dissuade her from seeing Malcolm again. Although, she was a little circumspect about his position in the public eye. Clara loved her privacy.

Her mobile sat on the nightstand and she kept watching it. She wanted to text Malcolm, but she bet that would come off as too needy, just one day after their date. She'd also been pondering calling the Doctor, just to check in. She used to call him all the time. It wouldn't be weird, would it? Or come off as needy? She'd been truly happy for him when he said he was going home. He'd said he couldn't commute all the way to Earth to pick her up, it was too much of a trip. But what if he missed her too? What if he wanted an excuse to go on a trip? After all, he'd run away from Gallifrey all those years ago. Deep down, she'd always thought that staying on one planet in one particular time would be terribly boring for him.

Before she could think it through, she seized the phone and pulled up his number from the directory. She stared at the little stick insect with a top hat and placed her thumb on the green button. It rang once and then she hit the end call button and shut the thing off.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she muttered to herself. She drank the rest of her wine, turned off the lamp beside the bed, and laid there in the darkness until she finally, _mercifully_, fell asleep.

**12**

"Clara!"

Still half-asleep, she rolled over in bed and wrapped her arms around her head, trying to block out the awful noise.

"Clara, wake up!"

She flinched. She peered at the clock on the nightstand. It was five a.m. Way too early to get up for school yet.

"Clara!"

Doctor? Or Malcolm? The voice was familiar – deep, with a Scottish accent, and distinctly annoyed. She slowly opened her eyes to see the Doctor seated at her makeup table.

Or was it Malcolm?

She felt a frission of awareness staring at him, imagining Malcolm's lips on hers, the hungry look in his eyes. Then, she scrutinized the man once more. No, not Malcolm. He wore a dark crimson-lined coat, holey jumper, and a pair of black trousers. His expression was dour. _Yes, definitely the Doctor._

"You rang?" he said dryly.

"Is it really you?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. "As in…are you really here?"

He sighed in that infuriating way of his putting up with humans was such a chore. "Yes, Clara, it's me. I had to come to you, since you shut off your mobile." He shook his head. "I may be rusty on my phone etiquette but after you call a person, you should be on the lookout for a return phone call."

"Well, your usual response time is a couple of weeks!" she fired back, falling instantly back into their regular _His Girl Friday_ type of banter.

"Are you going to berate me for perceived past slights or tell me what you rang me for?" he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Doctor!" she screeched, shoving the covers off and rounding the bed, her embarrassment faded, overcome by the pure delight in seeing him again. She flung herself at him, bending over and hugging his neck.

The Doctor froze in her grip, arms at his sides, looking away and clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry! I know you don't like hugs," she said contritely as she pulled back. "But I couldn't help myself."

"Clara, your clothes!: His hand shot out, flapping around in her general vicinity as he stared fixedly at the wall.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't think!" Honestly, what did it matter what she wore around him? She grinned. "I've missed you."

The normally harsh set of his features softened, clearly delighted. It made him appear a bit younger. Though, he stubbornly refused to look at her. "Did you, then?"

"Yes," she said with a sigh. "And did you miss me?"

"I…noticed you were gone," he said slowly. "I found it quite…unpleasant."

Well, it was as much of and admission as she was likely to get. She'd take it.

Clara padded over to the chest, in the Doctor's line of vision along the wall, and started searching for a pair of yoga pants to slip on. She'd tucked away a couple of old pairs when she'd cleaned out her clothes. She finally bent over to grasp a pair from the bottom drawer.

The Doctor shot to his feet, nearly knocking the table over. "I'll wait for you in the kitchen!" he said as he made for the door.

"What's wrong with you?" she said, frowning at his retreating back.

The Doctor didn't turn around. "You're nearly naked, Clara," he scolded.

"Like you care!" she said with a laugh. She'd often though she could do a striptease in the control room and he wouldn't even notice. For pity's sake, he didn't even register her as young, female, or attractive anymore. He'd made lots of remarks about her hips being mannish, how she was short and round, and how he bizarrely thought they looked the same age.

He flinched. "I'm a man, Clara. It's…_inappropriate_."

"Since when do you worry about what is proper?" she scoffed as she tugged the pants up her legs. "And if you're worried for some reason, don't be. I don't have any designs on you or anything. I know you're, er, asexual now," she said quickly, flushing. She'd figured that out along the way and while it pained her that the man she'd once fancied no longer found her attractive, she accepted it. It was part of his nature.

"Am I, then?" he asked softly as he turned and leaned against the doorjamb. He finally met her gaze. But she couldn't quite place his expression.

"Well, yeah," she said as she grabbed a hoodie from the back of the chair he'd just vacated and shrugged it on.

He raised a silver brow. "How do you know?"

"I just do," she said as she zipped up the fleece. "See? I'm fully dressed."

He mumbled something under his breath she didn't quite catch.

"What did you say?"

He paused a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, he spoke. "Clara, why do you believe I'm asexual?"

_Oh, God. Most embarrassing conversation ever._ She shouldn't have said anything in the first place. Evidently, she'd hit upon a sensitive subject. "Look, can we just drop it? I'm happy to see you. Let's have a coffee and catch up, okay?"

"We will, after you enlighten me."

_Fantastic._ He'd decided to be stubborn about it. "Seriously? You really want to do this?" she said tightly.

"Want to? No, but we'll do it just the same."

She blew out a long breath and forced herself to lay it all out for him. "Well, for a lot of reasons. You don't like touching me. You don't do hugs anymore. In fact, you actively run from them. Oh and because of the Missy thing. She grabbed you and kissed you. You were completely terrified, panting against the window as though you'd been violated."

"I _had_ been violated," the Doctor growled. "I'm not in the habit of kissing strange women, particularly ones who back me against a wall and kiss me with all of the skill of a Hoover running amok. And you know very well _why_ I don't like hugs."

"Yes, because you can hide your face," she repeated.

"What else?" he prompted.

She groaned, wanting to get it over. "You and I are just _different _now."

"Because I don't chase you around the control room anymore, trying to find excuses to touch you?"

Clara's gaped at him. She wouldn't have described it that uncharitably, but if the truth fits... "Uh, well, yeah."

"Perhaps, I just have more self-control in this incarnation. And you've somehow interpreted that as asexual?"

"Um, yes."

"Well, I'm not, Clara, not at all. I would appreciate it if you were fully clothed around me." With that, he stalked off to the kitchen and Clara followed after, truly baffled by his behavior. What was he getting so huffy about? Who cares? He saw her as a friend now.

Clara shrugged it off and made a pot of coffee. Then she sat down on a kitchen stool beside him while it brewed. She determinedly changed the subject. "Tell me about Gallifrey. Have they made you king, yet?"

He opened his mouth and then closed it. "Truthfully?"

"Of course."

His shoulders sagged. "She didn't give me the right coordinates. My home is still lost. I lied to you, Clara," he admitted.

"Oh, Doctor," she murmured. "I'm sorry." She patted his forearm. Clara knew how badly he wanted to find his planet. But she needed to know something else. "But why did you lie?"

He searched her face. "I wanted you to be happy and not worry about your old friend. You and P.E. had been through so much. I thought you deserved some happiness in your life. A home, children, and a normal human existence with the man you love."

Clara laughed, shaking her head. _What a mess._

"What?" he asked, brow creasing.

"We're both idiots, Doctor."

He shook his head. "What?"

"Don't you get it? I lied to you too. Danny didn't come back through that portal. He sent the boy he'd accidentally killed in the war through it, saving his life instead. So I lied to you as well, because I didn't want to make you feel obligated to travel with me."

The Doctor chuckled. "Yes, we're a pair of idiots. But Clara, does this mean what I think it does?"

Her heartbeat sped up and she bit her lower lip. "Depends. What do you think it means?"

He grinned at her. "You haven't fallen in love with any other men in the past few months have you? Or are you available as a travel companion once more?'

She briefly thought of Malcolm and shook it off. "No, I'm not in love with anyone," she said truthfully. "I'm free as can be."

His face lit up as he nodded to the brewed coffee. "Do you have travel mugs?"

"Yes!" she said hastily, her breath catching.

"Good, because I think you and I are about to go on a trip. What do you say?"

She jumped to her feet, already dashing to the cupboard. "I say give me some planets, Doctor!"

**12**

Two weeks later, Clara and the Doctor trudged into the TARDIS from the swamps on Llerup. She had mud caked clear up to her thighs. The Doctor was better off due to his height and the fact that he'd treated his pants and shoes with some sort of futuristic fabric protector. He'd tapped his feet against the door of the TARDIS and the mud miraculously slid off his legs, leaving him perfectly clean.

"I told you to wear galoshes," he said, glaring at the brown mess on her lower half.

"I did!" she said, defensively. "You can't see them because they're coated in a layer of muck."

"Hmm," he said, tapping his chin. "Perhaps I should have pre-treated your clothing, too."

"You think?" she snapped.

He scowled at her sarcasm. "Go change. Now. Take off your shoes here and then fold your pant legs up, so you don't track that filth all over my ship."

Clara did as he asked and then stomped off to her bedroom, thoroughly irritated. She loved traveling with the Doctor, but sometimes? They just rubbed each other the wrong way.

The Doctor called after her, "get a mop when you're done so you can clean up your mess!"

After she'd gotten changed, she went up and down corridors trying to find the bloody broom closet with no luck. She found the swimming pool, extra bedrooms, rooms stuffed to the gills with clothing, and finally a study.

But no closet.

She was about to slam the door shut and continue her fruitless search when something caught her eye – a sketch of her lay out on the desk next to the door. Clara crept closer and stared down at the picture. It was done in pencil and appeared to be one of _her _sleeping in her room on the TARDIS. She was curled on her side, fast asleep, the covers were draped around her waist. It was a very intimate picture, one drawn when she was unaware.

Had the bow-tied Doctor drawn this? He must have! He'd once confessed to painting her likeness. Maybe he also sketched her. A stab of pain hit picked it up, studying her sleeping form. He probably crept into her room one night and drew her, watching her while she slept. "Oh, Doctor," she breathed, missing him desperately.

Why hadn't they ever acted on their attraction? Clara had few regrets in life, but that one plagued her. What might her life be like if she'd told the Doctor how she felt about him? Would he have changed into the cantankerous Scott? She certainly wouldn't have pursued Danny Pink. Oh, Danny. More and more she'd been thinking that had been a rebound relationship, a reaction to losing the man she'd lost in the fires of regeneration. She'd loved Danny, of course she had, but never the way he deserved. Never quite enough. The Doctor had always come first with her.

"What are you doing in here?"

Clara gasped in surprise, turning to see the Doctor standing in the doorway. He snatched the picture from her and placed it back on the desk, face down. His expression was thunderous.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to snoop. I was looking for a mop and I happened to see the drawing. It's lovely. I never knew he sketched me," she said sadly. "Just that he'd done that oil painting."

"That's because the bow-tied ninny didn't do that drawing, Clara, I did." He pulled a face. "Technically, he is me, but you know what I mean. The other me? He had delusions of being portrait artist. His medium was oil paint, not pencil."

Her mouth fell open, still caught up on his confession. "What?"

"You heard me," he said gruffly.

Clara didn't know what to make of Doctor sat at her bedside, drawing her while she slumbered? That seemed highly unlikely. "You actually drew that?"

"Have you suddenly become simple? What part was hard to understand?" he grated out. "_I_ drew it."

"But why?"

He didn't answer her.

She tried again. "Doctor, why did you draw me?"

"Every artist needs a subject, Clara. You were merely…_convenient_, as I have no interest in drawing starscapes or endless bowls of fruit. I prefer to sketch people and it much more difficult when you don't have a model."

He didn't look at her when he said that, and she got the impression he was lying. He was far too uptight about it. Normally, the Doctor craved any sort of praise. He loved to be admired, appreciated and he soaked it up like an adolescent boy. He was forever trying to impress her without how much he knew.

"Clara," he said, pinning her with his eyes. "Did you happen to see any other drawings?"

She frowned. "No, I just picked up the one on the desk. Why? Are there more?"

"Not of you," he said quickly.

_Yet another lie?_ Her instincts said yes.

"Good. Don't snoop through my things again," he said stiffly. "Now let's get out of here. I'll show you where the mop is, since you seem unable to locate it on your own."

"I didn't mean to—"

He cut her off. "After you take care of the floor, we'd best get you home. I'll drop you off at your flat a few minutes after I snatched you up. Then, we'll make a plan for next Wednesday." The Doctor stalked down the hallway and she had no choice but to follow him.

Clara walked behind him, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. She made a mental note of the location of the room. One thing was for sure. She would be back there again, regardless of what she'd said to him.

If there were other drawings, and she was pretty sure there were, she wanted to see them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Spun 3/?**

"So, my reputation didn't scare you off then?" Malcolm asked as he tossed some freshly grated ginger into the wok on his stove. While he kept his eyes on the pan in front of him, Clara could see thinly veiled tension in the way he had a death grip on the handle. While he might seem non-chalant, her answer mattered to him.

Clara had only been at his place a few minutes. He'd already given her a glass of white wine, and seated her at the counter. Malcolm was finishing up what smelled like some delicious Chinese food.

She took a sip of wine and shrugged. "No, not really."

He turned to face her, his left eye twitching the slightest bit. "Not really? That is woman-ese for _something_ bothered you, yeah?"

She scowled at his characterization, but he was right. "You have a very public life. I happen to be a _very _private person."

Malcolm nodded and his features relaxed the slightest bit. "That's all? Just the lack of privacy?"

She bet he'd scared off a lot of women with his craggy demeanor or reputation as a political animal. Clara wondered if other people could see beneath his mask. Sure, he put up a very hard front from what she could see, but under it, he was a good person. Though, she had no doubt that all matter of hell would rain down on someone who came to the attention of his darker side.

And for the first time, she really saw _him. _Not as merely some Doctor doppelganger, perhaps because the man himself had come back into her life. Malcolm Tucker was officially his own person in her mind.

"That's all. I've never craved any sort of spotlight." Dating was hard enough without reporters getting involved. Besides which, she was the traveling companion of an ancient alien who parked his spaceship wherever and whenever he felt like. It would be slightly awkward to get caught in the act by _The Guardian_.

He snorted. "Me either. I don't fucking live like a hermit for the fun of it. I like being behind the scenes pulling strings. But talking to reporters is a necessity. You know, the way sewage plant workers have to be knee-deep in shit all day."

She couldn't help but giggle at the analogy.

"Is it a deal-breaker then?" he asked gruffly.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are." He grinned as he filled two plates and then joined her at the breakfast bar.

He'd made sesame chicken and vegetable fried rice and it was better than any Chinese take-away she'd ever had.

Now that he was so close, it was hard not to touch him. He wore a pair of black trousers and a grey cashmere jumper. She had the urge to stroke it, she wondered if it was as soft as it looked. But, she kept her hands to herself.

They finished the meal in companionable silence before Malcolm moved them into the living room with cups of coffee and fortune cookies.

"You could have been a chef," Clara complimented. "That was lovely."

He smirked. "Yes, I could've done. I always wanted my own restaurant. But," he said, reaching for the cookies. "I chose my path a long time ago. So, we aren't done yet. You have to try one of these. Open your cookie first."

Clara shook her head, disbelieving. The man had actually made his own fortune cookies. Who does that?! She cracked it in half and pulled out the fortune inside.

Malcolm watched her carefully, eager to see her reaction.

Handwritten on a tiny piece of paper it read: _A devastatingly handsome older man will give you many orgasms._

Clara laughed outright at his audacity. "You know, my friends and I always say 'in bed' after any fortune we get, but I think it's already implied with this one."

"Is it then?" Malcolm said slyly. "How conventional. For example, I could give you an orgasm on this sofa." He patted it invitingly.

Suddenly, Clara's mouth went dry. She cleared her throat. "What does yours say?"

He opened it and then leered at her before he read aloud his own message. "You will pleasure a beautiful young woman tonight."

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yes," he said, his voice dipping lower to a sensual timbre. "I could make you pass out from pleasure. I've been making love to women longer than you've been alive, Clara. I know_ exactly_ where to touch, where to taste…"

_Oh, God._

Suddenly, she wanted to touch him, the ten or so centimeters between them on the sofa felt like yawning cavern. She laid a hand against his chest, feeling the fabric of that jumper she'd thought about earlier. Malcolm's eyes turned to smoke. He leaned down and captured her mouth, kissing her deeply. His elegant hands slid into her hair, holding her still.

"Let me, Clara," he murmured against her mouth. "Say the word and I'll spend the night making you scream my name."

Clara quivered. "I don't know..."

"If I recall, correctly, this _is_ our third date," he said smoothly, releasing her hair so he could slide one warm palm along her bare thigh. She'd worn a red blouse and a black skirt today without any tights. Clara bet that, subconsciously, she'd wanted his touch on her bare skin.

"No, it isn't," she whispered, trying to reign in her impulses. She wanted to climb on his lap, thread her hands through his hair, kiss him wildly...but she liked him, _really_ liked him. Lord knows, she was attracted to him. What if she blew it by giving in to the sexual part of their relationship too soon?

She focused on his argument and not her wayward hormones. "We had coffee and dinner on the same day."

"See? I count three dates," he said, tapping her leg three times. "This is the third."

"No, the coffee and dinner were one date," Clara contradicted. "They happened the same day. The dinner was a continuation of the coffee date. But the_ next_ date will be the third date." She placed her hand over his and brushed it away.

Malcolm sighed, as though greatly put out. But immediately, he seized on what he perceived as a silver lining. "So, that means after our next date—"

"No one said the third date rule was in effect."

His brows furrowed. "Oh, _fuck _me! I won't be inside you next time either?"

She gulped at the vivid imagery, but ultimately refused to be boxed in to a specific date. "I can't give you a sexual weather report. It could happen, but it might not. It's hard to tell."

"Would you like me to tell you about something else that's hard?" he quipped. "Hard and aching." He gestured to his lap and a blush crept up her cheeks as she noticed the obviously tented fabric. "I'm in fucking blue ball hell over here. I should have put saltpeter in my food. You are killing me, woman."

Clara laughed. "I doubt you can die from sexual frustration," she said dryly.

"What about from uncontrollable wanking?"

She chuckled, unable to help herself. "If that were the case, there would be a lot of teenage boys in trouble." She patted his hand and gave him a reproving look. "You'll be fine."

"I fucked myself on this one," he grumbled. "Literally. I asked you to make me work for it." Malcolm heaved a sigh.

"Yes, you really did."

"Fine, I'll bide my time. What are you doing next Saturday?" he asked.

"Having dinner with you."

He grinned and then it sharpened into a scowl. "Oh, fuck!" he said crossly. He slid the Blackberry from his pocket, pulling up his calendar. "Next weekend is the PM's wife's birthday party. I have to make an appearance." He made a face. "What about Friday instead?"

_Wow._ He'd been invited to the Prime Minister's house. She was suitably impressed. "Unfortunately, I can't Friday. I promised my father and his…wife, I'd have dinner with them," she said hesitantly, refusing to call that woman stepmother.

"Is it possible to reschedule with them?"

Clara shook her head, sadly. "Not if I ever want to hear the end of it. So you and I will have to get together the following weekend."

Malcolm frowned. "Absolutely not. Two weeks is way too long. Come to the birthday party with me."

Clara's eyes widened. Did he seriously just invite her to the Prime Minister's place? "As your date?"

Malcolm didn't really answer her question. "There will be photo ops before, but no actual press at the party, but we can sneak you in past the press. So your privacy will remain intact. This will be a private affair in the residence, not a full on state function with dignitaries and all the pomp and fucking circumstance."

She beamed. "I'd love to."

"It's settled then. I'll text you the details, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Where were we then?" Malcolm said, with a devilish grin. "I was about to talk you into coming upstairs with me."

"No, I was about to say goodnight." She stood up and leaned down to press a light kiss to his lips. "It's getting late. I'd best be going." Any more temptation and she'd give in.

Reluctantly, Malcolm saw her to the door and then pressed her up against it. His mouth swooped down on hers, kissing her breathless.

"I'll be thinking about you all week," he murmured against her lips.

Clara moaned. The urge to wrap her arms around him was almost undeniable. "I'll be thinking about you, too."

"I also want you to think about _this_." He pressed his hips against her, letting her feel his erection, hard and hungry, against her stomach. There was no mistaking how much he wanted her.

She groaned in response, suddenly needing to wrap her legs around him, too.

"I intend to coax you into my bed Saturday. Or the sofa, the shower, over the railing on the stair, or possibly all of those locations…."

She spoke in a low whisper. "I get your point."

His voice was a husky growl. "You'll think on it, yeah?"

"I promise I'll think about it." Shivering with anticipation, Clara left Malcom's flat on wobbly legs.

In fact, she doubted she'd think about much else.

**12**

Late Monday, Malcolm texted her the party details. He said he'd given her name to security so she could be vetted and her record had predictably come back clean. He'd also said he had a hard pass for her and he'd secured her a "plus one" invitation to the event.

The only wrinkle was, the black tie nature of the party. She marveled that black tie could be considered casual. Frowning, Clara stood assessing the sad state of her wardrobe. She only had three frocks that could be considered formal. All of them were bridesmaid dresses and decidedly ugly. But she couldn't afford a ball gown she'd only wear once on her teacher's salary.

_Hmm._ A wonderful idea occurred to her. She knew a certain Time Lord with endless cupboards full of clothes.

An hour later, the TARDIS wheezingly appeared in her bedroom. Clara snapped her fingers and the door shot open.

She found the Doctor at the console with a piece of his spacecraft in hand, scanning it with the sonic. "What's the favour you need?" he asked, not bothering to look up.

"Well, hello, to you too. How've you been?"

"Do you want to exchange boring human pleasantries or get down to it? I've got more interesting things to do than be at your beck and call," he muttered.

Clara rolled her eyes. "And yet here you are…"

His brow creased. "What do you want, Clara?" he bit out.

When they first started traveling together, Clara and this new version of the Doctor, Clara had combed through endless pictures of owls, trying to find matching expressions for the Doctor's many glares. She must have really annoyed him, because this one was the _Great Horned Owl_ look.

"I need a dress."

"You called me, all the way from the Moons of Penzel 3 for a dress?! Don't they have shops in London for that sort of thing? Pop into one of them and buy yourself a frock."

"I need a ball gown," she explained quickly, before he booted her off the TARDIS. "But I don't have money to buy one."

He stopped fiddling with the mechanical part. "Why does a school teacher need something as frivolous as a ball gown, anyway?" he grouched.

"Obviously, when the school teacher in question is going to a formal party. Can I borrow one?"

"I suppose," he growled. He tossed the object on the console and headed up the stairs. "Come with me."  
>"I can find it myself!" she said quickly, not wanting to pick one out while he complained the whole time. Of course, he didn't listen to her. She darted after him, hurrying to keep up with his longer strides which ate up the floor at a rapid pace.<p>

"It will go faster if I point you in the right direction," he called down the hallway. Eventually, he stopped in front of a room and opened it to reveal hundreds of gowns in different sizes and shapes. "Pick one out and be quick about it. I don't have time to waste."

"Says the man with the time machine," she muttered as she perused the gowns.

The Doctor leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "What party are you going to?"

Clara had her back to him, so it was easier to lie. "Oh, just a fundraiser for Coal Hill." There was no way in hell, she would tell him about the party. He would ask too many questions and that's what usually gave her lies away, _the damn details._ Sometimes she just babbled on until she gave herself away.

Besides, she had no idea how to explain Malcolm to the Doctor. But she already knew he wouldn't like it. Her relationship with the Doctor was strictly platonic now and she would have a hard time explaining to him why she was dating someone who looked exactly like him….and she'd thought he'd reacted badly to Danny Pink!

It would be embarrassing and awkward as hell. So she'd already decided Malcolm and the Doctor would never, ever meet. She'd see to it.

"Sounds a bit posh for Coal Hill."

"I guess," she said airily. She pulled a blue gown from the closet and held it up against her body, grimacing.

"Not _that _one."

"Oh, you're a fashion critic now?" Truthfully, she'd been thinking the same thing, but she hated it when he told her what to do.

He gestured to his elegantly tailored attire. "I could be."

Clara snorted.

"Try the red one over there," he said pointing to a dress at the end of the rack.

With a sigh, she put the blue back and pulled out the red. Not because she wanted to, but because she doubted he'd shut up about it until she did. She held it up to herself and smiled. She hated to admit it, but it was a good choice. The length was perfect and it didn't have one of those ridiculously poofy designs that would swallow up her petite form.

It was long and sleek, with a wraparound bodice, and some silver beading emphasized the waist. She turned and couldn't help but admire herself in the long, cheval glass mirror along the wall. It had been ages since she'd gotten dressed up for something.

Well, something that didn't involve running for her life.

"I'll borrow this one," she said quickly. Problem solved. She _could_ afford the shoes and bag she would need to pair with it. "Thank you, Doctor." She looked up to see him watching her. For once his expression didn't show a trace of anger, or annoyance.

He looked…mesmerized, his mouth had fallen open, and there was a softness in his blue eyes.

Then, it was quickly replaced by a smug smile. "You're welcome," he said with an imperious nod. "I hope you enjoyed your stay at the TARDIS boutique," he retorted. She headed out the door, dress in hand. "This means you owe me a favour now, right?"

_That_ stopped Clara in her tracks. She turned to look at him, where he stood in the shadows of the room. "Are we keeping score then?"

"Haven't we always?"

"I suppose so," she admitted. She and this older, trickier Doctor had developed a competitive sort of relationship. His influence on her was unmistakable.

"_Quid pro quo_, Clara." His voice deepened.

Why did that tone make her pulse jump? "What favour do you need?"

He ignored her question. "When is your party? The one you urgently needed a dress for."

"This upcoming Saturday night," she said hesitantly.

He stalked towards her, moving with leonine grace. "And when will it be over?

"Why? Are you trying to give me a curfew now?" She found herself backing away from him. He seemed _intense, _far too interested in her activities.

He got closer, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. "Of course not. You are a grown woman, but answer the question."

"Uh, I'm not sure maybe one or two." Her back hit the wall.

"That's awfully late for a school fundraiser, don't you think?" He was suspicious, no doubt about it. He placed a hand on the wall beside her head.

"That's what time the staff be getting done," she lied quickly. "We have to clean up after the party."

"I see. Then, presumably, you'll be coming back to your flat after that?"

_Dammit._

Actually, she played with the idea of going home with Malcolm. She hadn't decided yet, but she wanted to. She couldn't possibly explain_ that_ to the Doctor. She'd told him she hadn't fallen in love with anyone, but she'd purposely failed to mention dating someone. He really didn't like it when she paid attention to any other man. Not Danny, not Robin Hood, and definitely not his human twin either.

"Why?"

"Clara, just answer the question." He looked down at her, his eyes intent on her.

She tried to think of a plausible lie, but failed. Finally, she sighed heavily, giving in. "Yes."

"Excellent. I will wait for you and then we can talk about my favour."

"Why are being all mysterious?" she asked.

He grinned toothily, looking impossibly wolfish. "You'll find out Saturday. See you this weekend, Clara." With that, he sauntered down the hallway, leaving her grumbling about mercurial Time Lords.

Exasperated, she gathered up her dress and left the ship. Soon after, the TARDIS disappeared.

**12**

Saturday night, Malcolm sent a car to collect her and at six thirty on the dot, a sleek black sedan pulled up in front of her flat. Clara, in her red dress and silver heels, walked out to meet it.

The driver rounded the car and held the door open for her. He tipped his hat. "Good evening."

Clara smiled at the man by way of greeting. The interior of the car was dark and she ducked inside, expecting to find Malcolm, but instead discovered a bespectacled young man with curly brown hair. The driver shut the door behind her and then quickly started up the engine.

"I'm Ollie," he said offering her a hand. "You must be Clara Oswald."

She shook his hand limply. "Nice to meet you. Where's Malcolm?"

"He didn't tell you? I'm your date for the evening." He gave her a once over, a low whistle escaping his lips. "I must say you're prettier than I imagined. I thought he stuck me with some—"

Clara's glare kept him from finishing the sentence. The driver took off and a series of text messages caused her phone to vibrate.

She read each of them with increasing dread:

_I didn't think you'd come if I told you Wee Willy Winky here would be your date._

"Well, you're right about that," she grumbled. She'd been looking forward to a modern day Cinderella sort of evening with Malcolm, not his hateful co-worker. He should have been upfront with her.

_I'd be proud to have you on my arm, Clara, but I'd look like Hugh Hefner without the money or the wank magazine._

She rolled her eyes.

_ Backdoor Boy is the right age and I gave him one hell of a preemptive bollocking. If he so much as looks at you funny, use the cat toy on him. In fact, video it for me._

Clara couldn't help but laugh at that. She opened her clutch to reveal her keys. She never left home without the Doctor's laser. She turned her attention back to the texts.

_If you aren't cross later, we'll have nightcap at my place._

She could read between the lines of that statement. He thought they'd be having sex after he sent her on a date with another man? _Too bad._ Besides, the Doctor had already laid claim to her time.

Not that she was in the mood for hanky panky anyway.

Ollie cleared his throat. "That was from Malcolm I presume?"

Clara smiled tightly. "Yes." She didn't elaborate. "What did he tell you about me?"

"He said you were a schoolteacher," Ollie said, with just a hint of a sneer, as though her profession was beneath him. "You are the daughter of one of his old school chums?"

"Did he then?" Clara said airily. "Well, Malcolm and I are way closer than that. Why, he's _practically _my uncle!"

"Really," Ollie said, leaning forward, eyes glittering. He clearly wanted some office gossip.

Yes, Malcolm should have laid this all out so she could make an informed choice instead, of sticking her with this insufferable man. But she might as well have fun with the situation. Maybe try out her new-found lying skills on an especially deserving lab rat….?


	4. Chapter 4

Spun 4/?

After arriving at the party, Clara and Ollie had gone through a rather lengthy security process. They'd walked through metal detectors, had their identification cards checked against their hard passes, and were then finally handed off to Malcolm who collected them from the agents.

The party was in full swing.

A string quartet played off to one side. There were several small tables covered in white linens. Tuxedo-clad waiters moved about the room, offering appetizer_s _and glasses of champagne. A big table near the center of the room, held a tiered black and white cake, which was flanked by vases of red roses. The guests were all dressed up. The men wore tuxes and the women gowns. Clara was glad she'd borrowed her outfit from the Doctor. None of her frocks would have been suitable. Most of the couture in the room would have cost more than her rent money for the month.

Speaking of being well-dressed, Malcolm looked knee-wobblingly sexy in his tuxedo. Just like the Doctor, he pulled off formal wear exceptionally well. Clara thought he had a James Bond air about him. She loved the black bow-tie at his throat, too. She missed seeing men in bow ties.

But…she wouldn't be dissuaded by her hormones.

"Uncle Malcolm!" Clara said as she threw herself into his arms.

He stared down at her, eyes widening comically. "What are you doing?" he whispered as he gave her an avuncular kiss on the forehead. Though, his expression suggested he wanted much more intimate contact with her.

"I just embellished a bit," she murmured with the cheekiest of grins.

"Paying me back, yeah?" he muttered.

"Yep." She winked at him and then took him by the arm. She gestured to Ollie who watched their interaction with interest. "I told your colleague here how you were way more than just a friend of my father's. I said you were more like an uncle to me." She patted Malcolm's hand with affection. "I told him about all of our family vacations together and how you made all my birthday cakes growing up."

His eyes promised retribution of his own.

_Bring it on._

Clara intended to teach him a lesson about informed consent. If there was one thing she hated, it was being blindsided. The Doctor had done it to her twice on Trenzalore, tricking her and sending her away. She didn't like it then and now that she'd gotten stronger, a bit harder, she didn't intend to put up with it, not from any man.

"Yes, that's true," he managed, and then gave Ollie an absolutely blood-chilling smile, as if daring him to make a smart remark. No, not a smile, exactly. It was more of a bearing of teeth. Everything about it said _beware_, even though he'd masked it as a polite social interaction.

Ollie continued to gape at them.

"Something to say, son? Or are you going to stand there doing a constipated owl impression?"

"I had no idea," Ollie murmured. He continued giving Malcolm the strangest look, blinking.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Malcolm growled.

"That you….I don't know…have friends or family even. I thought you slept in a damp basement, in a coffin or something. Like Dracula," he said. Then he gave a high-pitched, awkward little laugh.

"I don't know what kind of fucked up homoerotic Twilight fantasy you have goin' on in your head, but I'd never shag you, even if I did bugger men," Malcolm said nastily.

Ollie turned as red as Clara's dress. "N-no, that's not what I meant. I don't—"

"Save it. No means no."

Ollie stared off into the distance and pulled at the collar of his white shirt.

Clara cleared her throat, trying to break up the awkward tension. "Be nice, Uncle Malcolm."

"Never." Malcolm glanced down at Clara and his voice lowered to that knickers-soaking resonance he'd perfected. "Just remember, young lady, you aren't too big to bend over my knee."

_Well, that sounded dirty. _

She glanced hastily in Ollie's direction.

But he seemed oblivious. In fact, he currently scanned the room. Maybe looking for more important people to talk to?

"Fuck off, Ollie," Malcolm said succinctly, snapping his fingers at the other man.

The other man didn't waste any time. "I'm going to get some champagne then," he said as he went toward waiter, who just happened to be standing next to the Prime Minister.

"I can see this little arrangement didn't set well with you," Malcolm began. "But there was no way 'round it. I couldn't put you on the list as my date or be photographed with you, but we can still have most of the night together, just two people innocently talking at a party."

"I get it," she said with a shrug. "But I'd appreciate knowing upfront. I was expecting to go on a date with you and ended up with Draco Malfoy over there," she said nodding to where Ollie stood with a group of sycophants surrounding the PM.

He chuckled. "And have you thought about coming home with me?" he whispered. "Or will I be having a date with my left hand later tonight?"

Clara's breath caught. "I've thought about it all week."

His eyes turned to smoke. "Are you going to put me out of my misery, then?"

She forced herself to the say the words. "I want to…but I can't. I have other plans."

"What other plans could you possibly have in the middle of the night? " he muttered. "Hold up. With fucking Ollie? I'll kill him, if he—"

Clara grabbed his arm before he ended up starting a scene. "No, not with him. Like I would willingly spend one more second with him. I just made other plans."

"With who?" Malcolm asked tightly.

"You sound jealous," Clara said, watching his face.

"Well, that's because I _am_ fucking jealous, sweetheart. Green as that grouchy Christmas thief guy with no pants."

"The Grinch?" she guessed.

"Yeah, that one! " He studied her for a moment, his face thoughtful. "You are going to meet up with that Doctor wanker, yeah?" he guessed. "Anyone else and you'd have told me about it."

He was far too perceptive."No, um, with a girlfriend of mine."

"You're lying," Malcolm said flatly. She opened her mouth, but he put up a hand. "Don't even bother trying to deny it. I know when someone is lying to me, Clara. Let me guess. The Doctor is back."

She might as well come clean with him"Yes, he is."

"Come on then. I think that spot of news calls for a drink." He guided them over to a table in the furthest corner of the room and snagged a couple of champagne flutes from a waiter's tray. They both took a few sips of champagne in silence.

"I'm not dating him," Clara began. "He and I are just friends. I told you the truth the first time we met."

'Then why the fuck are you meeting him in the middle of the night?"

Clara thought about Danny at that moment. And all the lies she'd told him, most of them involving the Doctor. Did she want to make the same mistake again? It had ended very, very badly for Danny. She had to be a bit more honest with Malcolm. Though, she doubted she could tell him everything. Not all the time.

"The Doctor's idea of time and ours is just…different. Remember the metal men?" she said quickly.

"What does that have to do with any of this?" he gritted out.

"Everything, actually. He's from outer space, just like the metal men are. But he's a different kind of alien, the good kind. The Doctor's the one who saved us. And he's saved us again and again from all sorts of alien threats. He and I are friends and I travel with him. I help him."

Malcolm stared at her, mouth open, absolutely speechless. He downed the rest of his champagne. "I need you to explain all of it to me. From the beginning."

Clara proceeded to do exactly that.

**12**

Hours later, she trudged up the stairs to her flat feeling about a hundred years old. She'd had several glasses of champagne that evening. The alcohol and the emotional turmoil had combined to tire her out.

Malcolm had patiently listened to her explain about the Doctor. He'd taken it all in, but she noticed a sadness in his eyes. She wondered if he still thought he was some sort of Doctor surrogate for her, or maybe he thought she'd stop seeing him now that she had "the real thing" back in her life. He couldn't be more wrong. Tomorrow, she would get it all sorted out. Right now, she was too exhausted to think properly.

While Clara had gotten the chance to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with the Prime Minister and his wife, the rest of the date had fizzled. She'd even wager it was worse than her first one with Danny, and that was saying something. Malcolm had to work, so they hadn't seen each other much after she'd told him about the Doctor. He'd shaken hands, made the rounds, and even taken one shivering middle-aged man to task about something she wasn't close enough to hear, but it seemed pretty bad.

Ollie had eventually rejoined her and proceeded to bore her death by making snide remarks about the party guests, as well as bragging about his job, and future career plans. He'd pressed her for more information on Malcolm, but she'd ignored him. Clara hadn't even gotten a chance to say goodnight to Malcolm. The Prime Minister had monopolized him the last half an hour, and before she knew it, Ollie was whisking her out the door to the waiting car.

When she got in the door, she toed off her shoes, and headed straight to the bedroom…where she found the Doctor in her bed…in the dark.

Those two things just didn't go together –the Doctor and her bed. The TARDIS was parked in the corner of her bedroom, nearly blocking the attached bathroom. If she didn't know better, she'd say he was trying to mark his territory or something.

"You are late, Clara. It's nearly three," he said. Though, his tone wasn't accusatory or disgruntled, merely factual.

"I know. The, um, fundraiser ran late."

"Who dropped you off?" he asked.

"Someone from work," she said lightly.

"Does this person have a name and gender?"

Clara thought up a quick lie. "Ol..livia. Olivia. And she's an, um, she."

"You've never mentioned her before." He frowned, but didn't challenge her answer. "Well, you're here now." The Doctor had grabbed all the bed pillows and propped himself into a seated position. Though, his legs were stretched out in front of him. He'd also removed his shoes and coat. He had a bottle of …stuff…on the nightstand as well as one of her wine glasses. The substance in the bottle shimmered and undulated, like it was a living thing, and the color seemed to shift. One minute it was blue, then silver, before shifting to red.

She reached for the light switch, but he stopped her. "No, don't! The light hurts my eyes, just now."

"Okay," she said slowly. "Is everything alright, Doctor?" She tossed her tiny handbag on the makeup table, then removed her earrings and necklace, placing them back in the jewelry box.

"Yeah, course it is," he said, before snagging the glass and draining it. He licked his lips and Clara could make out a glittery substance on his mouth.

"What are you drinking?" He seemed to have developed a taste for spirits. She'd seen him with wine on several occasions, as well as whiskey.

"It's a very special wine, from Tocopherols." He poured another glass and held it out to her. "Try some."

Careful to not touch his fingers, she took the glass from him and took a sip. It tasted like ripe strawberries and whipped cream. It was delicious, way better than the champagne earlier. "That's amazing."

"I know. What does it taste like for you?"

She frowned. "Um, the same as it tastes for you."

"No, Clara. It's different for every person. It captures a sense memory from you, giving everyone a different experience."

She drank a bit more. "I taste berries and cream," she said quickly. "You know, I've been thinking about that lately. I wanted to get fresh berries for a trifle. What does it taste like for you?"

He took the glass from her and she was surprised when his fingers grazed hers. "For me, it tastes like warm brown sugar and cinnamon."

She shook her head, smiling. He had one serious sweet tooth. "How much have you had?"

"A bottle and," he paused to shake the container, "and a half so far."

Her eyes rounded. Sure, she'd had too much champagne, but she'd been at a party, where that was commonplace.

Drinking all alone in her bedroom? That sounded a bit worse.

"Oh, stop it with judgmental look. I'm a grown man and I'll drink how much I like. Besides, I'm a Time Lord, alcohol doesn't have the same affect on us."

"Have it your way, you always do." She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "So, what favour am I doing?" _Dear God, let it be a quick one_. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and go to sleep.

"I want you to take off your dress."

She gaped at him. Did he seriously say what she thought he'd just said?!

"You're doing it again! Clara, get your eyes under control!"

"I will whenever you explain yourself!" She leaned over and snatched the glass from him. "And I'm cutting you off. You've clearly had too much to drink."

He sighed, in that familiar patronizing, _why don't you understand, you stupid little human_ way. "I only want to draw you. I promise."

"You want to draw me…._without clothes?!"_

"Oh, don't make it sound like that. You'll be an artist's model. I haven't done a nude in ages, not since River. Though, Bow Tie wasted the opportunity by painting her instead of sketching. Nudes are such a challenge. You have to get the shading and symmetry just right."

She stood there, mutely, staring at him.

"Come on then, pop your dress off and we'll get started." He reached under his discarded coat and pulled out a large leather bound journal as if she'd already agreed. Inside, was a thick pad of ivory paper. Before she could look at any of the drawings, he flipped to a blank page. Then, he pulled a pencil from the pocket of his coat.

"Absolutely not! Didn't you just tell me I needed to be fully clothed around you?!"

"Yes, but we've also established it doesn't bother _you_ to be nearly naked in my presence. I've decided I might as well take advantage of it. Being a nude artist's model shouldn't bother you either." The Doctor grabbed the bottle on the nightstand and took a drink, ignoring the glass she'd taken.

_Ugh._ She hated it when he twisted around her words. "Yes, I was comfortable in very little clothing, but being completely naked is different. Trust me."

"Clara," he said his voice placating. "Please, I just want to draw you. You look….beautiful tonight."

The sincerity in his eyes captivated her for a moment.

He actually seemed to be giving her a genuine compliment. Not like the time he'd told her she looked lovely because she'd just had a bath. He hadn't made a positive comment about her body since he'd changed. It had been all narrow man hips, too wide of a face, and her short-roundedness.

But now? He looked at her the way he used to, like she was the most beautiful thing in the universe and it melted her heart. "Thank you."

He grinned, full of boyish enthusiasm. "Let's get started. Come on, then," he said, waving his hand. "Take off your dress."

And her heart froze right back up again.

She gave him one of her teacher glares, the one she usually reserved for Courtney Woods. "Not on your many lives, Doctor."

He sighed, looking quite put out. "What about a compromise?"

"What kind of compromise?" she asked suspiciously.

He gestured to her makeup table. "You can sit at the vanity, pretending as though you are getting undressed after a night out."

"I would be getting undressed after a night out."

"See? Realism. So you could pull down one of your stockings? Oh, and the back of your dress should be unzipped!" he said, gesturing wildly, his eagerness evident. "That would be an amazing sketch and it will be a challenge to capture the correct proportions in the mirrors."

Clara thought about it. It didn't sound too bad, right? She'd be nearly dressed, nothing _indecent_ would be exposed. Besides, she'd been curious about this artistic side of him. It would give her the opportunity to observe him draw in the mirror while he worked.

"Fine. I'll do it." She sat down at the table. The Doctor delved into his jacket pockets and started to remove six silver spheres. He touched the sonic to each of them and they instantly hovered in the air around the table, providing flickering illumination.

"Mechanical candles," he explained quickly. "I want the sketch to have deeper shadows and the fluorescent lights would be too much." Then, quick as a shot, the Doctor clambered off the bed and stood behind her.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and she froze for a minute. It had been so long since he'd had his hands on her. Other than a perfunctory hug, or holding her steady when they were on an adventure together. He hadn't touched her, _really touched her_, in what felt like ages.

Their eyes met in the mirror and a long, tension-filled beat passed.

The Doctor shook his head, as though trying to concentrate. "I'm just going to do unzip you now," he murmured. He carefully, pulled the zipper down. Then, he parted the fabric and Clara thought she saw his hands tremble slightly.

He licked his lips, meeting her eyes once more. "I need to undo your…bra. I want an uninterrupted view of your back."

She nodded. He deftly worked the hooks and eyes on her strapless bra and this time,_ she_ trembled. How many times had she pictured that? The Doctor slowly removing her clothing…?

He ran one long finger down the line of her back. "So smooth," he whispered. Again, he shook his head."Now, I need you to move slightly to the left and angle your body with your leg out." She did as he asked and then he crouched at her feet and slowly moved her dress up the length of her thigh.

_So very slowly…._Clara shivered, imagining him touching other, much more intimate places.

_What is happening to me? Was it the wine? The champagne from earlier in the night? _Something was different between her and the Doctor…she could feel it. In fact, this felt like a date, or the beginning of a tryst—candlelight, wine, near nakedness, and all in her bedroom to boot.

Clara idly wondered if she'd just been manipulated. The Doctor knew she would say no to a nude sketch. But, it was a good strategy to ask for something bigger, before "compromising" on the smaller thing you actually wanted in the first place. For example, a clever child asking for a pony first, before agreeing on a kitten instead.

Too bad that figuring out his plan, didn't make it any less…_exciting_. Or maybe she was just in hormonal overdrive from being around Malcolm?

_Malcolm!_

What about Malcolm?! She should be thinking about him. He was the man she was actually dating for pity's sake. Maybe all of this erotic energy was just misplaced. After all, since he shared a face and form with the Doctor, this whole strange vibe was probably just a residual attraction to him. Right?!

Or she could be practicing the art of denial.

The Doctor laid one lean, elegant hand on her thigh and she almost cried out "You're wearing garters," he said hoarsely.

"Y-yes." Clara hadn't been able to find a pair of pantyhose that didn't have holes, so she'd thrown on a garter belt and a pair of black lacy thigh highs. Both of those items had been used for carnal purposes initially, but they did the job in a pinch.

"I need you to keep your skirt raised for me, okay?" He smoothed a hand down her leg.

Clara swallowed thickly. "Okay," she managed to get out. The attraction certainly didn't feel residual. _What a mess._

Finally, he backed away from her and then the Doctor lay back down on her bed. He began to draw her furiously. Being the focus of his intense stare made her stomach flip. It was such an intimate pose, such an intimate act, really.

Part of her never wanted it to end.

But all too soon, he finished outlining the drawing. Then closed the journal and tucked it back under his coat. He smothered a yawn with his hand. "I'm afraid we'll have to finish this tomorrow. I can't even see straight anymore."

"I have to get up early tomorrow," she reminded him. "I have dozens of errands to run."

"_And I_ have a time machine, Clara."

She gritted her teeth. "Fine." Then, she gestured to the TARDIS. "Well, goodnight then. I'll be needing my bed back."

The Doctor placed his hands behind his head and spread out even further on the bed, like a lazy cat laying in the sun. "Don't be ridiculous. There's enough room for us both."

She stood up, making sure to hold the bodice of her dress against her body, so she didn't inadvertently flash him. "Yes, but you have your own bed on your very own spaceship."

"But your bed is much more comfortable." He snapped his fingers and the TARDIS doors opened. "But you can sleep in your room on-board if you like."

She heaved a disgusted sigh. "The last time I stayed over, she put the door to my bedroom on the ceiling. I don't have the energy to deal with a cranky machine."

He grinned as he rearranged the pillows and made space for her beside him. "Then, I suggest you sleep with me."

"_Beside_ you. Big difference."

He shrugged.

Clara rolled her eyes, sensing yet another capitulation in her near future. "If you snore, I'm going to smack you with that bottle."

"Whatever you say, boss." His lips curved into a triumphant little grin.

She grabbed up a pair of yoga pants and t-shirt and stomped off to the bathroom to change complaining loudly about scheming, unscrupulous Time Lords.


	5. Chapter 5

**Spun 5/?**

"Clara, Clara…"

Clara slowly became aware of five rather strange things.

One, she wasn't alone in bed. She hadn't slept beside someone since Danny had died. Two, the long, lanky body next to hers was the Doctor. As in the Doctor... her time-traveling-turned-totally-platonic friend. Not only that, he was currently _spooning _her, his front pressed against her back with one arm draped around her middle. While she couldn't see his face, she'd recognize his long-fingered hands anywhere. Which meant that, three, the night before hadn't been some sort of champagne-induced dream. Four, something rather long and decidedly hard was pressed against her backside. She sincerely hoped it was the sonic screwdriver.. .because of terribly important reasons she couldn't quite recall at the moment. Which brought her to number five, the Doctor was calling her name in his sleep.

"Clara, Clara!" he moaned as he pressed his face into her hair, snuffling.

She honestly didn't know what to do. This seemed strangely intimate. Her brain cells kept misfiring. Laying here in bed, being cuddled by him felt so good. They hadn't been his tactile since he'd changed and she missed his hugs, the way he'd held her hand while they walked, the way he cupped her face. Surely, the universe wouldn't begrudge her a sleepy little clinch?

Then reality, that cold hard bitch, intruded.

What if that, er, hardness wasn't the sonic? What if the Doctor woke up and caught them in this position and then it got really awkward. Awkward enough for him to pull a disappearing act on her for a while. She really couldn't take another separation from him. Besides, Clara was dating Malcolm right now. She probably shouldn't be spooning with another man, even if they both were fully clothed.

Reluctantly and very carefully, she eased away from him. Slowly lifting his arm from around her abdomen and sliding out from beneath it. As she reached the edge of the bed, she set her feet on the floor and quietly stood up.

"Clara!" the Doctor gasped behind her.

Whirling, she found him staring at her, eyebrows at the ready. Frankly, he looked as shocked as she had been. He still lay on the bed, clutching the covers to his chest, which he had monopolized all night. Given that he still had trousers and a shirt on, his modesty was comical.

As if _she _had tried to molest _him_?

"What are you doing in my bed?" he demanded.

She placed her hands on her hips. "_You_ are in _my_ bed!"

Blinking, he took in the rest of her bedroom, scanning it with a furrowed brow. "So I am." His eyes lit on the bottle on the nightstand. "I must have drank more than I thought." He turned back to her, running a lean hand down the length of his face.

She pursed her lips. "I thought you had a superior alien constitution or something."

"Don't gloat, Clara, it's a terrible habit," he said, absently pushing a hand through his hair. He had a major case of bed head and it reminded her of a fluffy, ruffled owl.

"Yes, well, I wonder where I picked it up?" she said dryly. "What were you dreaming about?"

"Time Lords don't dream," he said, suddenly examining the blankets he was wrapped in as though they held the very secrets of the galaxy.

She knew that sheepish expression anywhere. _That_ one hadn't changed due to regeneration. "That's a lie. You, the bow-tied you," she clarified, "told me you dream."

He gave her a nasty little smile, meeting her eyes. "Maybe _he_ was telling you the lie. Ever stop to think of that?"

_That _was unsettling. She refused to be dissuaded though. "Don't disconnect from this. _You _told me_ you_ dream. _You_ were saying my name in your sleep."

"I often do," he said with a shrug.

"Wait. What?"

"I say your name, Clara. All the time. Is it any wonder I repeat it when I dream?" He raised a brow, at least acknowledging that he did dream. He slid to the opposite side of the bed and started to methodically put his clothing to rights. "_Clara,_ put that down!_ Clara_, don't wander off! _Clara_, watch out for the creature about to eat you!" he said in a mocking tone. He fastened his waistcoat. Next, the boots went on. Finally, he stood, and with an exaggerated swoosh, like a matador enthralling a bull, as he put on his jacket.

She sighed. "I haven't even had coffee yet. All I want is a simple answer. What were you dreaming about, Doctor?!"

He offered her a puckish smile. "I don't think you're ready to hear the answer to that just yet, Clara." He clasped his hands together, rubbing them in anticipation. "Now, on to more important things. What are you making me for breakfast? I'm famished. And did you mention coffee?"

Thirty minutes later, they were seated at her kitchen table with waffles and cups of coffee. The Doctor methodically poured syrup into all of the little squares. He did this with an air of precision, filling each to the very top before moving on to the next one, his tongue lolling at the corner of his mouth.

She frowned at him. "What are you doing?"

"The ratio of syrup to waffle is very important, Clara."

"It seems to me you like a little waffle with your syrup," she said, before taking a sip of coffee. He'd already plunked seven or eight sugar cubes into his own coffee and crunched on a couple of them while waiting for his waffle. "If you don't watch it, you're going to have rotten teeth."

"Time Lords don't often get cavities, Clara. You might say our bodies are quite wonder. We are impervious to most illnesses. We have greater strength and stamina,too." He paused to look her in the eye…._rather meaningfully_.

Clara stared back at him. Was that some sort of innuendo?

Then, the Doctor abruptly turned back to his waffle.

Shaking her head, she dug into her own waffle and let him be. When he finished filling it with with syrup, he tore into it with gusto, almost like little boy. When they finished eating, she placed the dishes in the sink and then turned to him. "Ready to sketch?"

He glanced down at his feet and she could swear she saw the hint of a blush form on his pale cheeks. "I can't now, Clara, its too early. The lighting is all wrong, which means the shading wouldn't be the same. We'll have to continue this evening."

"But last night you said…"

"_That_ was last night," he said, cutting her off. "I've had a chance to think about it some more."

She rolled her eyes. She adored the Doctor, but honestly, he rubbed her the wrong way sometimes. Specifically, when it came to her schedule. She thought, secretly, he resented her for not agreeing to travel with him 24/7 because he often tried to sabotage her carefully crafted agenda. "Okay. If that's the case, I should start in on my errands. What time tonight?"

"Six," he said quickly.

She frowned. "But it won't be dark then."  
>He finally looked up, but his eyes seem to focus on her forehead. "Well, I thought we could have dinner and then I'll sketch you."<p>

He wanted to have dinner with her? The breakfast was strange enough. Sure, they'd had meals together, but it always involved a trip. Once they'd gone to Colonial America to a charming pub in Philadelphia and once they had supper in Nazi Berlin. Both had involved the Doctor droning on and on as he showed off how much he knew about Earth History.

"Um, I'll make us dinner then."

"No, I will bring supper with me," the Doctor announced.

"You will?"

He looked affronted. "Yes, Clara, that's what I said. Is something wrong with your hearing?"

"It's just strange. You and I having meals together at my place, I mean. She bit her lip, studying his carefully blank face. "It's so…normal."

He seemed to consider his words for a moment, silence stretching between them. "I… enjoy your company, Clara. I would like to have dinner with you tonight. Besides, I believe in Western human culture, it is customary for a man to stay for breakfast after he's slept with a woman."

Her breath caught. "Um, Doctor, we didn't sleep together." Did he even know how that sounded?

"Yes, we did!" he insisted. "We lay beside each other all night. I haven't slept that much in months."

"Yes, but we didn't_ sleep_ _together_." She widened her eyes, trying to get him to understand the nuance.

He scowled at her. "We most certainly did, we were in the same bed all night."

"But…" Clara trailed off. Was there a point in making a fuss about wording? Or explaining the subtleties of human culture? Probably not. He'd never grasp them.

Unless…._unless_ he was being deliberately obtuse? Perhaps, the Doctor had an agenda of his very own.

He continued to stare at her, as though daring her to contradict him.

Discomfited, Clara changed the topic. "Doctor, do you cook?"

"Not as such, but don't worry, a dinner you shall have." With that, he went striding towards the TARDIS purposefully. "No time to dawdle now, Clara, I have preparations to make! I will see you tonight."

Clara polished off her coffee, sitting alone in the kitchen, as she pondered what bloody hell had just happened. Because apparently,she'd just made a dinner date with the Doctor.

**12**

Clara spent the next several hours running a series of tedious but necessary errands. She did the grocery shopping, dropped clothes off at the dry cleaner, took back a truly hideous pair of shoes her father's wife had bought for her as a gift, and dropped by the library for some reading material.

The boring chores didn't stop there.

When she got home, she placed her dishes in the dishwasher, did a couple of loads of laundry, and then stared at her phone for the next thirty minutes. She thought about texting Malcolm, or better yet, calling him, but she really didn't know what to say.

Last night's conversation hadn't happened under the best of circumstances. She probably shouldn't have dropped all of that on him in a crowded location. He no doubt had questions. And another, less secure part of herself, wondered if she'd blown it with him. He'd ended the date without securing the next one. Did that mean he didn't want to see her anymore? Just as she was about to give in and call him, he showed up on her doorstep, as if bidden by her thoughts.

"Malcolm!" she said, throwing open the door to let him in. "How did you know where I live?"

He smirked. "I work for the government, sweetheart. It wasn't _that _difficult." He held a carrier aloft, with two coffees and offered her one.

"Oh, I guess it wouldn't be. Thank you for the coffee."

They stood there, staring at one another for a moment. Clara wondered if she should lean in and kiss him hello? But, he made no move to kiss her. In fact, if she didn't know better, she'd say Malcolm was uneasy. He normally had a confident, sexualized air about him.

Today, he seemed noticeably subdued.

He cleared his throat and tugged at his grey tie. "I have a car waiting for me outside. I can't stay long. The PM wants me to go over his fucking speech one more time."

"Well, come in, then." She escorted him to the couch and they sat silently for a moment. Finally, Clara placed a hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry I sprung the whole Doctor thing on you last night."

"Don't be. I'm glad you told me." He took a sip of his coffee, holding it between his slim hands. "Now, that he's back…what does that mean for you and me?"

"It doesn't affect us at all," Clara said hurriedly. 'The Doctor and I are very good friends, but that is it."

He nodded and then he turned his steely-eyed gaze on her, like he was trying to see down into the depths of her soul or something. It was unnerving to say the least. "So, you saw him last night?"

Clara nodded. "Yes, I did." She did her level best to not look guilty and she didn't offer any details.

"And what did you do with him?" He kept watching her like a hungry predator and not in the fun, sexual way. She suddenly felt a sympathetic pang for the people he worked with, who could withstand this level of scrutiny?

She licked her lips. "We had a glass of wine and a good talk." _Before the nearly naked drawing session and the spooning_, she amended silently.

"I see. So, he's… what? Your travelling companion?"

"Yes. We travel time and space together."

"And nothing more?" He narrowed his eyes.

Clara thought about his younger, dashing bow-tied self. "Okay, I have something more to tell you. It's a bit weird."

"Weirder than dating a space man?" Malcolm asked, making a face.

"I'm not dating him!" she insisted. "The Doctor has the ability to regenerate. He can change his form and his face. It also changes his personality a bit. Before he got this face, he was younger and well…nicer. He and I had a flirtatious relationship, then, but we don't now. But, we never dated. Just flirted." Although, technically, hadn't she made a date with the Doctor tonight? No, it was just a platonic dinner. She shook her head.

"Because you are no longer attracted to him?" Malcolm pressed.

Clara gulped. "Um, no. I'm not."

"Clara, you said he looks like me," he said slowly, then his lips curved into the hint of a sexy smile. "We've already established you like me and we both know you want to shag me senseless."

Clara laughed softly. "Yes, I suppose we have."

"I am a handsome devil and I'm assuming this twat is as well. So that begs the question, do you want the alien, too?"

She frowned at his choice of terms, but didn't correct him. "No, I don't." She glanced down at her lap. That sounded like a lie to her own ears. Last night had fundamentally changed her relationship with the Doctor somehow. She couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Clara," he said, taking her hand in his. "Look at me."

She met his gaze hesitantly.

"I don't believe you."

"But…"

"I saw you in the middle of the street when you thought I was this Doctor. You were so happy to see him, pushed yourself up against me like you wanted me to fuck you right there on the sidewalk."

"Oi!" Clara said. Every single time he told that story, it sounded more like a Playboy magazine letter. "I did not!"

"You did, too."Malcolm continued on, mischief in his eyes. "And it's okay if you do. Want him, I mean."

Okay, she'd missed a step. "Huh?"

He chuckled. "Clara, do I strike you as a man who backs down from competition?"

"Um, no." Actually, he seemed to thrive on it. You'd have to be competitive, in his line of work.

"Okay then. Have you slept with him?"

_Oh, here we go again with the sleeping."_No, I haven't." She said that firmly, looking him in the eye.

He nodded. "I believe you."

"Good. Because I just told you the truth."

Suddenly, the tension seemed to clear between them.

Malcolm grinned, a wicked glint in his dancing blue eyes. "I intend to win you anyway."

"There is no winning. I'm dating you. Not him."

"So you've said." His tone indicated he didn't believe it. Then, a crafty look settled in his gaze. "Since you haven't had an encounter of the third kind with him, how do you know he has all the naughty bits you need?"

Clara took a big gulp of coffee. Suddenly, her mouth went dry. "Excuse me?"

"He could have fucking tentacles or what all below the waist." He raised a knowing brow. "He could be a fucking squid for all you know."

Clara shuddered involuntarily. "No, he doesn't… he couldn't. The Doctor is humanoid."

She had always assumed he had mostly human parts. Sure, there were two hearts. Hey...what if he had two of, er, other things? Hmm. Points to ponder. Then another thought occurred to her. What if she _had _only felt the sonic…?!_ Ewww._

"But he isn't human, sorts of things could be wrong," Malcolm pointed out, making his case. "Let's say he does have a proper dick…what if it had a mouth on it? Teeth? You honestly don't know what you're getting into."

Clara cleared her throat. "I don't wonder about things like that, because the Doctor and I will never be in a position for me to see his…er…man parts."

Malcolm grinned at her. "_You_ will be in a position to see _my_ man parts very soon."

"Will I?" she asked, raising a brow.

"Yes." His voice lowered to a rumble. "I don't have any fucking tentacles, by the way. Just a big, long, hard cock." As if to emphasize this point, he splayed his legs apart on the couch.

Clara could feel a flush creeping up her cheeks.

He groaned. "Fuck, if I didn't have to go to the PM's office in a few, I'd be inside you already," he growled. "In fact, I'd spend the day inside you."

Clara shivered. She could feel the wetness begin to pool between her thighs. Something about his dirty talk, his unabashed libido got to her.

"What are you doing Monday night?" he asked, running a hand down the length of his leg. Stroking it. She could see a distinct bulge in his pants.

She couldn't help but follow the movement of his hand with her eyes. "Having dinner with you."

He licked his lips. "No, Clara, you'll be having dinner with me _afterwards_. Then, you'll be staying the night and I'll make you breakfast."

She bit her lower lip. "Oh, you mean…"

Malcolm dragged her onto his lap, situating her thighs on either side of his. She could feel him beneath her bottom, hard and long, just as promised. He fisted his hand in her hair, drawing her down for a deep, drugging kiss. Then, he ground against her, letting her feel just how voracious he was for her. His hands then settled on her hips, squeezing. "I mean, when I get my hands on you again, I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to think about anyone but me."

"Malcolm," she muttered, lost in a sensual haze, as he continued to rub against her.

Finally, he loosened his hold and gently pressed her back on the couch. "Fuck, anymore, and I'll have to go to work with a stain on my trousers." He stood up and then buttoned is jacket, trying to hide his obvious erection. Then bent down to take her mouth once more. "Until, tomorrow night, Clara Oswald," he whispered against her lips.

And then he was out the door…leaving Clara to fall back on the couch in a carnal stupor.

Suddenly, the next twenty-four hours felt like as many years.


	6. Chapter 6

**Spun 6/?**

The next few hours crawled by for Clara.

She'd tried to keep herself busy by tidying up her apartment, but her thoughts centered on both men in her life. Funny, to think she'd been so alone a few weeks ago and now she had a bit too much companionship. Between the two of them, most her downtime was filled.

At promptly six, the Doctor arrived. The TARDIS materialized in her home once more and he dashed from the doors with a soufflé dish and a salad platter in his hands. Under his arm, he had a bottle of wine. Clara had already set the table and was waiting for him in the kitchen.

He set them down with a flourish. "Dinner is served. Cheese soufflé and a greens salad with a vinaigrette dressing." He caught her eye. "Are you impressed?"

It both looked and smelled incredible. She had expected everything from strange alien foods to a supper of sugar cubes. She was pleasantly surprised he'd pulled off a gourmet meal. "Very! You know how much I love soufflé. How did you manage all of this?" she asked as he sat down across from her.

He cleared his throat. "You know I don't carry money, so I… borrowed the food."

"Borrowed it…?"

He nodded. "Yes, from a chef."

Her lips quirked. "I think you mean stole."

"That's such a negative term." He cut into the soufflé and placed portions on both of their plates, then did the same with the salad. "Besides, she can always make more. I figure there was no real harm."

"She, who? Which chef?"

"Julia Child," he said with a grin.

This is Julia Child's soufflé?! _The_ Julia Child?"

"Yes, Clara, I just said that I popped over to her kitchen and set the TARDIS and invisible mode while she was trying out some recipes and grabbed something I thought you might like. Well, don't stand on ceremony. Tuck in."

Unable to resist, Clara took a bite. It was absolutely delicious. The Doctor did as well. He paused, as though considering the bite he'd taken, and then nodded as though he found it palatable…but just barely. He didn't seem as enthused as she was.

He opened the bottle of wine and poured them both a glass. No words were on the beautiful silver label. The wine itself was shimmering pale pink color and it swirled in the glass like a tiny whirlpool.

She nodded to her glass. "So, what does _this_ alien wine do?"

The Doctor tasted his. "It's supposed to enhance one's emotion, although I don't see the point." He grimaced. "Besides, it's very sweet and came as a free gift with the vintage I bought last night."

"_You_ are drinking wine that makes you feel things?" she asked, wide-eyed.

He made a face. "I was out of the other kind. Besides, it augments emotions that are already present; it doesn't _give_ you any feelings. Frankly, I'm not worried about it. It shouldn't have much of an effect on me, because _I_ am in control of my emotional responses."

"So am I."

He snorted. "We'll be a bit more cautious with how much _you _drink. Humans always get carried away."

Clara glared at him. "I can control my emotions."

"Yes, I can see that, boss," he said dryly. Then, he changed topics. "What did you do today?"

She took a sip of wine. "Nothing much," she lied. "Just ran errands and did some chores."

Part of her wanted to tell him about Malcolm, even if she had to edit out the part about how they could be twins. But, he got really possessive and sort of jealous, despite his assertion that he had a good reign on his emotions. Things were going pretty well between them, despite some of the strangeness, better than their relationship had been in a long time. She wouldn't screw it up now by being honest.

"Are you sure that's all?" The Doctor lazily swirled the wine in his glass.

"What do you mean?"

"The dress you needed….how secretive you've been acting. I have wondered if you were seeing someone."

Clara nearly choked on her soufflé. She coughed and then said hoarsely, "Um, no, of course not."

He studied her face and she somehow felt he could read it like a book. "You should be dating. I know you loved Danny, Clara, and you have some quaint human notion that you will never feel that way about another man again, but you are very young. You might find yourself falling for someone else." He licked his lips, studying the wine in his glass. "Perhaps, someone older, a man who is adventurous and better suited to your needs."

There was a long pause.

_Who did he mean exactly? _"You still don't think Danny and I were a good match," she said softly.

He downed the rest of his wine and poured another, then refilled her glass. "I don't want to start a row with you, but yes, I still believe you made a boyfriend error," he finally said.

Clara nodded. "He and I were wrong for one another. I can see that now, but I miss him. I _always_ will. I think we wanted very different things in life and I only ended up hurting him in the end."  
>The Doctor met her gaze, unblinking. "He loved you, Clara, he proved that, even when he could no longer feel that emotion," he said, very gently. Almost too gently for him. Must be the wine? "Have you considered dating someone?"<p>

"I…I don't know," she whispered. Where was this conversation going? Was the Doctor somehow implying that he was a good candidate to be her boyfriend?

No that was ridiculous. He'd very plainly declared he wasn't her boyfriend. Perhaps all of this togetherness was just because he'd missed her…?

He raised his glass, clinking it against hers. "Let's drink to finding you a perfect match."

"Uh, Doctor, I don't need a matchmaker or something." Lest, he get any ideas about finding her what he considered a proper boyfriend.

"Of course not." He smiled pleasantly and it was full of mischief. "That wasn't what I was suggesting at all."

"Then what were you suggesting?"

"You'll figure it out, eventually, Clara. Eat your dinner before it gets cold."

**12**

Thirty minutes later, after they'd finished dinner and polished off the rest of the bottle of wine (so much for drinking in moderation), the Doctor and Clara were once again her bedroom. She pulled on the ball gown in the attached bathroom, while he prepared to sketch her. She emerged from the room, to find him lying on her bed once more. He'd retrieved another bottle of the pink wine and poured them each a glass. His sat on her nightstand and he'd placed hers at the table.

Clara hadn't bothered zipping the dress, letting the back lay open. She'd also pulled on her stockings and garter belt to recreate the look from last night.

The Doctor had turned off the lights and placed his mechanical candles around the makeup table for illumination. His eyes seemed to drink her in, scanning her body from head to toe slowly, and then his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

They stared at one another for a long, heated moment. Clara licked her suddenly dry lips. She could feel the tension curling in her stomach.

God, what was wrong with her? This was the Doctor. They didn't have that sort of relationship anymore. But right now she wondered what it would be like to join him on that bed, kiss him, run her hands through his hair...

It seemed to be affecting the Doctor, too. He had the sonic screwdriver in his grip and stroked it up and down, his long hands caressing it. Almost as if it were something else…something hard and long.

Did he feel this pull between them, too?

Eventually, he broke the silence. "Sit down, please," he said gruffly. "In the same position."

Clara somehow made her legs work and managed to sit at the table. The Doctor retrieved his sketch pad and began to draw furiously. He worked quickly and she observed him in the mirror, admiring the sheer force of his focus, how his hand moved deftly over the page. She couldn't wait to see the drawing.

Then the Doctor was suddenly behind her. She hadn't even heard him move. He placed his hands on her shoulders and her breath caught. Desire flaring to life once more.

"Clara , I need to touch you. I'm not quite getting the line of your back right." He watched her expression in the mirror, silently asking for her permission. When she nodded, he placed his palm between her shoulder blades and it felt hot against her skin. Slowly, he ran his hand down her back. Clara's eyes fell close, relishing the small caress. Finally, his hand rested on the swell of her hips, staying there for a long moment.

"Maybe it's the dress, obscuring the lines," he murmured. "May I adjust it?" Again, he glanced at her and she nodded, somehow unable to speak.

He took hold of the bodice, probably intending to peel it a bit further back from her shoulders to reveal more of her torso, but it slipped, falling to her waist and exposing her breasts instead.

The Doctor made a strangled sound in his throat. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, but his eyes, reflected in the mirror, told another story. They devoured her, not missing an inch of skin, full of heat and hunger.

His hands fluttered around her shoulders, like startled birds. He started to pull the material up, but she shook her head. "Leave it, Doctor. You said you wanted a nude model, didn't you? I'm nearly there." God, her voice had lowered. It sounded breathy, even to her own ears.

"Clara!" he gasped. "A-are you sure?"

"Yes." She was anything _but _sure. Though she didn't want to cover up. She wanted to see what happened, where this lead. Right now, she couldn't think about Malcolm, about the impact this might have on her relationship with the Doctor.

She wanted him, wanted to see how this would play out….

"I, uh," the Doctor began, his face turning a delightful shade of crimson. She loved that he was so nervous, so flustered. That hadn't changed either. She had delighted in making his younger self uneasy, as well. Flirting with him, teasing him, just to see him blush.

He sucked in a breath. "I need your…uh, nipples to be hard, for the drawing, I mean. Not for me," he babbled.

Emboldened by his nervous desire, she turned in the chair until she faced him, placing a splayed leg on either side of his, inviting him into her space.

There was a large bulge in his trousers. _Nope, no tentacles there._

"Then, make them hard," Clara coaxed.

The Doctor hesitated for the longest time.

Would he touch her breasts? Tweak the nipples with his nimble fingers? Or would he bend down and suck them, make them pucker with his mouth? Instead, of either option, he snagged her glass and tipped it over the swell of her breasts, splashing each with the cool wine. She gasped at the sudden chill. Then the Doctor knelt at her feet and leaned forward, mouth mere centimeters from her left breast…and blew….causing the nipple to harden into a perfect peak.

Clara moaned, eyes falling shut. She felt his breath on the other nipple then, making it hard, too. When she finally pried her eyes open, she found him kneeling there, staring at her breasts, face taut, eyes full of fire.

"Oh, Clara," he groaned. "I…need…need…"

"Yes, Doctor?" she whispered. "Tell me. What do you need?"

He opened his mouth to speak and then shook his head. "N-n-no, it's too soon. Much too soon. This isn't going according to the plan," he mumbled. The next thing she knew, he was across the room, gathering his things. Then, he shot out the door, making his way to the TARDIS.

She followed after him. "Doctor, wait! Where are you going?"

"I'll see you tomorrow night," he called from inside. Before she could stop him, the TARDIS started up, disappearing as she watched. She slumped down on a kitchen chair, replaying everything, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. It wasn't until after he'd gone, she realized he planned to see her again during her date with Malcolm.

**12**

The next day Clara got up early and went to work. While she went through all the motions, her mind wasn't on teaching or her students. No, she was knee-deep in relationship drama.

In the light of day, she blamed the wine for her strange behavior with the Doctor. It was a lame excuse, but she clung to it, if only to keep from freaking out. The Doctor had run out of her flat like a Cyberman was on his heels. Not exactly the reaction you'd like from a romantic moment…or had it been all in her head? It had certainly _felt _romantic. At the very least, sexual. She really didn't know what to make of it, but it seemed to have upset the Doctor. Clara vowed that she wouldn't let anything untoward happen again. They'd stick to traveling and friendship. That meant no more drawings, no more dinner dates, and no more nakedness.

_Stupid sexy wine…._

Clara tried calling the Doctor several times. Unfortunately, he didn't answer the phone. Nor did he have voice-mail, so she couldn't leave a message. Well, if he showed up tonight, Clara would be at Malcolm's place. He might be angry that she'd gone, but at least he wouldn't discover her secret.

Around noon, she got a text from Malcolm that made her blush:

**Malcolm:** _See you tonight. 7 p.m. Don't wear knickers. _

**Clara:**I can't go around town without knickers! But I'll see you at 7.

**Malcolm:**If I had my way, you'd never wear them. You'd be bare-arsed in short skirts.

**Clara:** I'm wearing them tonight.

**Malcolm:** Fine. I'll remove them…with my teeth.

Clara shivered in anticipation. Maybe the Malcolm situation was the crux of her problem with the Doctor. She was just projecting this sexual energy onto him because they shared a face. Surely, if she had sex with Malcolm and…well, _calmed down_, so to speak, things would return to normal with the Doctor.

It sounded like a perfectly well-reasoned explanation, so she went with it.

**12**

That night, she arrived at Malcolm's place…wickedly without knickers. Clara had wanted to wear a pair but she was so sensitive now, so aroused. She was afraid the friction alone would make her orgasm. She wore a suitably short black skirt and a matching off the shoulder top. She'd also worn her thigh highs, just to add to the sexy vibe.

She had a momentary pang, thinking about the Doctor arriving at her deserted flat, but let it go. He's just come back at a later time and she could make up with him them. Then, she fully focused on Malcolm.

And as soon as he opened the door, he was on her…

Malcolm grabbed her hand, pulled her inside, and then pressed her up against the wall, before kissing her breathless.

"I couldn't fucking concentrate today," he muttered against her mouth when he broke this kiss. "I tried to write a speech, but I kept thinking about burying my mouth between your legs. I've been staggering around Downing all day with a fucking hard on like a neon sign. I had to resort to carrying folders with me to hide behind. I feel like a teenager on fucking Viagra."

Clara shivered, unable to even form words.

He ground himself against her belly. "I could pound nails with this thing. I haven't been this stiff since I was in my thirties." He was more than ready for her. And oh, she felt the same way."I didn't even start fucking dinner. There's only one thing I want to eat right now and it's between your legs."

Clara's knees nearly buckled. The next thing she knew, he dragged her into the living room and pushed her back on the couch, splaying one leg on the armrest and the other on the coffee table, so she was spread out for him.

Malcom knelt between her thighs. He rucked her skirt up, revealing her thigh highs. "Mmm, I like these," he said appreciatively. Then he shoved the skirt up further to unveil her naked, inflamed sex. She'd been in this state for hours. Every time she thought about him, it touched off a new wave of desire, keeping her body in a constant state of need.

"Oh, I like this even more," he praised. "I like you ready for me, needy."

God, she felt swollen, so eager for him."I—"

"Shh," he whispered, stroking her inner thigh. He licked his lips, like a hungry wolf. "It's time for my dinner."

With that, he pulled her thighs closer to him, hooking her legs over his shoulders and then bent his mouth to her sex, devouring her like a starving man. Malcolm lapped at her, tracing the entire length of her lips with his tongue, before delving his tongue into the center of her, drinking her in.

Clara keened, rocking into him.

With the pad of his thumb, he circled her clit, rubbing it persistently while she trembled, her hips moving involuntarily. She reached for his head, holding him to her as he relentlessly drove her towards an orgasm.

God, she was almost there…a few more seconds…

That's when she heard the telltale groan of the TARDIS materializing in Malcolm's living room….

"No!" Clara cried.

Malcolm sat back, eyes dazed, with Clara's wetness on his lips. "No?!" he asked incredulously.

"Not no to you," she tried to explain, gesturing towards the TARDIS as it finally landed a few feet behind him. "No to that!" She quickly clamped her legs shut and scrambled to her feet, while Malcolm slowly stood up, utterly flabbergasted.

"You're about to meet the Doctor," she said crossly. How on Earth did he find her?

"The Doctor?" Malcolm stared at the blue box in his living room. "How the fucking hell did that thing get in here?"

"Alien technology," she answered, distractedly. This was going to be so ugly. Worse than the Doctor's reaction to Robin Hood, worse than Danny. But it was like a train wreck. She couldn't do anything but stand there and watch.

The TARDIS doors swung open and the Doctor hopped out, eyes fixed on Clara. He didn't even bother to glance in Malcolm's direction. "What are you doing here? I went to your flat and you were gone. I told you I'd be seeing you tonight, Clara. I had to use the telepathic circuits to locate you."

_That's_ how he had found her. "Um, Doctor, I'm sorry. I, um, I had other plans." _Dear God, let him go back inside and not notice Malcolm. _

Then, the Doctor finally glanced at the man standing next to her. His brows swooped down low with obvious displeasure. He circled Malcolm, who in turn did the same, two angry men, taking each other's measure.

Malcolm moved on from shock to anger. He stepped forward, hand extended, ostensibly for a handshake, but it was the beginning of a test of wills. "I'm Malcolm bloody Tucker and you must be Doctor fucking Cock Block."

Clara groaned. _ Yes, this was exactly like a train wreck. _…_assume crash positions._


	7. Chapter 7

**Spun 7/?**

Clara watched in stunned fascination as the two nearly identical men faced off. Well, _exactly_ identical, except for the clothing.

The Doctor ignored Malcolm's jibe and his outstretched hand. Instead, he scanned the other man with the sonic as though examining an inanimate object of some sort. He frowned at the readings.

"What the fuck is that? A space vibrator?" Malcolm snarled. "Or did you cut off your cock and have it bronzed for posterity?"

The Doctor scowled at the other man, then smacked the sonic against his palm and tried it again, only this time a deeper scowl carved lines in face as he examined the readings. "It reads as human," he muttered. "Only one heart."

"Yeah? _I am _fucking human. I could have told you that, spaceman."

The Doctor raised the sonic once more.

"Point that thing on me one more time and I will shove that thing so far up your arse you making whirring sounds when you fart," Malcolm sneered.

With an uneasy glance at Malcolm, the Doctor pocketed the screwdriver and then addressed Clara instead. He often spoke to her about someone when he found the person too intolerable to even acknowledge. He'd done it to Danny on more than one occasion. "Where did you find this sweary, shouty pudding-brain version of me, Clara?"

"His name is Malcolm, Doctor. I ran into him on the street actually."

The Doctor smirked at Malcolm, as though to say, well_ isn't that interesting, but still second-rate_ before pinning her with his gaze once more. "You should have told me you found a duplicate. He could be a trap, a human replacement designed to—"

"Steal your girlfriend?" Malcolm said slyly. "I have some fucking tragic news for you. Game over, E.T. You ran off and left her. Then, I scooped her up. So climb back in your box and phone the fuck home."

The Doctor turned to Clara, affronted. "You told him about me?"

"Er, yes," Clara said, finally finding her voice. "But to be fair, you have just landed your spaceship in the middle of his living room. So, the gig is up."

The Doctor was clearly displeased. "And you have been dating him?!"

Her first instinct was to "surprise play" her way out of this one. Funny, how lying had become second nature, but she realized there was no point. Cat out of the bloody bag. "Yes, I am. I didn't tell you and I should have."

Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest and gave the Doctor a cheeky little grin. "Like I said? Fuck off. She's taken."

The Doctor turned his ire on Malcolm, finally deigning to speak to other man. "Clara has clearly made another boyfriend error, but I'm correcting this one. You can't have her."

"In case you missed it, I was just about to _have_ her on that couch, before you blundered in here and cock blocked me." Malcolm then made a great show of licking his lips. Then, he spoke in a low, sinister sort of tone. "She tastes sweet, by the way, so much sweeter than you've imagined and we both know you've imagined it. Like honeyed peaches."

Clara turned a fiery crimson as she realized Malcolm's lips were still wet from licking her earlier. _Oh, this was like a nightmare, worse than that recurring one about being naked in school._ The Doctor watched the gesture, his hands curling into fists.

Then, the Doctor stared at Clara, hard. He raked his eyes over her, taking in her short skirt, the skimpy top. She could see the emotions flitting briefly across his face... jealousy, envy, regret. For once, he was utterly speechless.

Finally, his expression settled into a cold fury. "Language!" he said icily to Malcolm.

Malcolm stepped forward. "What? Did I offend your dainty little alien ears?" He pressed a lean hand to his chest in mock contrition. "Next time I'll put a shilling in the curse jar, you tentacled bastard. "

"I do not have tentacles!" The Doctor took a step forward. "Clara is mine. If she wants to date a man who looks like…us, she can have _me_, the original. Not some vulgar, pudding-brain _imitation_."

It was Clara's turn to gape. The Doctor had just said she was his? He wanted to date her?! What happened to _not your boyfriend_?

Malcolm moved closer and the two men practically stood nose to nose. "I think Clara wants to be with a real human. An actual person like herself, not some grim bastard with a steel dildo for a cock. Finders, keepers, losers, cunts ….and all that."

"You haven't won her yet," the Doctor said tightly. "Why don't we let Clara choose? Or are you afraid?"

"Fine by me," Malcolm growled.

"Let Clara choose?" she put in. "Let Clara choose what?!" But both men ignored her.

"May the best man win," the Doctor said, raising his brows.

"Winner take all." The Doctor held out his hand and then Malcolm shook it.

_What just happened?! _ Because it sounded like they'd just decided to competitively date her…without her permission!

Clara watched their knuckles turn white, as they turned a simple handshake into a pissing contest. Wincing, they both pulled back, shaking their hands, and then leveling twin dirty looks at one another like two toddlers fighting over a toy.

Malcolm finally turned to Clara but she was already making her way to the front door. "Clara, where are you going?"

"Home! I've had enough testosterone for one night, thank you very little."

"Hold up!" he called.

Clara turned and watched as the Doctor ran back in the TARDIS and took off, leaving her to deal with the wreckage his impromptu visit had wrought. Sighing, she made her way to the exit.

Malcolm sprinted after her, shoving his hand against the door, to keep her from opening it. "We were in the middle of our date. You can't leave now."

"Oh, yes, I can and I will." Clara leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest.

He shifted his position, bracketing her with his body. Then, he lowered his voice to a seductive purr and his hands settled on her hips. "Clara, we haven't even had _dinner _yet."

She quivered involuntarily.He wasn't talking about food._ Dear God, the man was sex on a stick…._

But she couldn't let it go.

Clara took in a fortifying breath. She would not give in, not right now. She focused on their Neanderthal behavior and finally found that anger once more.

"Seriously? You think I'm going to sleep with you after that display?!" she said incredulously, waving her hand at his living room in an all-encompassing gesture. _"I_ am the one who decides who I date."

"Yes," Malcolm agreed smoothly. "And you've already agreed to date me, yeah?"

_Ugh. _He had a point. "I have."

"Frankly, I'm not seeing a problem, then, sweetheart."

"I do," Clara said quickly. "I'm not in the mood, not tonight. I'm tired and cross and I want to go home."

Malcolm pressed his body firmly against her once more, trapping her between the hard wall and the even harder man. "Give me a few minutes and I can get you in the mood again."

Clara placed a hand in the middle of his chest and pushed. "Not gonna happen right now. Down boy!"

Malcolm reluctantly backed off and put his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay then, have it your way. But I want to see you tomorrow night."

Clara hesitated. She needed time to think about this, about _them._ Suddenly, the world had gone topsy turvy. "I'll tell you what, I'll text you tomorrow and let you know."

For a moment, Malcolm faltered. His cocky self-assurance vanished. "Clara, are we…okay? Please tell me that overbearing twat didn't come between us."

"We're okay, Malcolm," she said quickly, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "I'm just a little confused at the moment. Not to mention annoyed."

"Then, have dinner with me and I'll make it up to you. Just dinner, I promise." But his slow, seductive smile belied his words.

She hesitated. Damn, he could be a charming bastard. "I don't know."

"I'll make you fettuccine with truffle butter and Parmesan cheese," he coaxed. "Along with homemade rosemary rolls."

Blast. He was using food against her. She started to say no, but then gave in. "Okay, but just dinner! I'm not agreeing to anything else. And just so we're clear? By dinner, I mean actual food." She waved a finger at him.

He grinned, looking as unrepentant as the devil himself. "Absolutely. Just dinner." He swooped down for a kiss, but she presented him with her cheek instead. If she allowed one kiss, she'd soon find herself making out with him….and then she'd give in to temptation and end up in his bed.

He surprised her by not kissing her proffered cheek. "Ah, that's how it is then, huh? You're going to make me work even harder now that he's in the picture." She started to deny it, but he placed a fingertip to her lips. "Don't bother. We both know it's true, but that's okay."

"It is?" she asked hesitantly.

"You're more than worth all the fucking effort." He brought his lips close to hers and whispered against her mouth, "Good night, Clara."

And then he released her.

"Good night." With that, she slipped out the door and made her way home.

**12**

When she got to her flat, Clara tossed her keys on the counter and ducked in the bathroom so she could splash cold water on her face and climb into a nightgown. All the way home, she'd been thinking about Malcolm and the Doctor. She was exhausted and emotionally wrung out. Not to mention, sexually frustrated in the extreme. She'd been so close to having what she could only assume was an incredible orgasm. Why couldn't the Doctor have arrived even five minutes later?

She dragged herself into the bedroom and gasped when the bedside lamp flicked. The Doctor sprawled on her bed, laying on his side. He'd removed his coat, the waistcoat, and his shoes. All that remained were his trousers and white shirt, which he'd unbuttoned. He smoothed hand down the length of his body.

_Was he trying to look…sexy?_

"I thought you'd never get here," he complained.

"Not all of us have a time machine," she retorted. "Speaking of, where is the TARDIS?"

"In the kitchen."

She shook her head. "You know, If you don't stop sneaking up on me, I'm going to put a bell on you, stalker."

"I'm not a stalker!" he said defensively, but he had "darty eyes" and a hint of red appeared on his pale cheeks.

"No, you just insult my boyfriends, crash my dates, sketch me while I sleep, and pop into my bedroom whenever you like. That doesn't sound stalkerish at all," she said mockingly.

He disregarded the crack. "Clara we need to talk about you and the copy."

"His name is Malcolm."

"You don't need to date him anymore, Clara, I'm right here," he did a little flourish with his hand, a _ta da_ sort of gesture. "Accept no Time Lord substitutes."

She sighed. "I don't want to talk about this with you right now. I'm exhausted and I want to go to bed." She stared at him pointedly, but he was too obtuse to pick up on her non-verbals. "That means you should go."

"I want to talk about it now," the Doctor insisted. "You lied to me."

A wave of guilt hit her. "I'm sorry about that. I wish I'd handled it differently." She lay down on the bed and turned to face him. "I just got you back, I didn't want another row with you."

The Doctor nodded and then watched her warily. "You think he's attractive?"

She traced the rose pattern on her sheet with a finger, not looking at him. "Yes, I do."

"And he looks like me," he pointed out. "Ergo, you find _me _attractive."

Clara glanced up and found his face very close to hers. She pounced on something else to derail that particular thought train. "What if I do? You ran out of here the other night just when things were getting interesting."

He flushed, flustered once more. He cleared his throat. "Clara, you've just lost your boyfriend. I was being gentlemanly."

"You also told me you weren't my boyfriend."

He turned his face, giving her his profile. "I was being….cautious."

Clara was rapidly becoming angry again. She sat up in bed, glowering at him. "Well, it hurt."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "_You_ said you didn't like my grey hair!"

"I was teasing you!"

"Well, I might have interpreted that as you thinking I'm old," he snapped.

"You are old," she retorted. "You've_ always_ been old."

"Well, now, I look it!" Then, he blew out a long breath, evidently making some effort to calm down. "The point of this is, you actually do find me attractive. This face, this form."

"Yes, I do," she grudgingly admitted.

The Doctor had a triumphant little grin on his face. "Then break up with the pudding-head version and you can have the real thing. I thought there might be something between us. That's why I've been nurturing that spark, seeing where it might lead."

"_Have_?" Clara repeated. "What do you mean by _have_ you?"

His hands swooped around once more, telegraphing his discomfort. "I mean, we can… date."

"Do you do that? Date?"

Lightning fast, he was irritated once more. "Clara, I have been married several times. I've fathered children," he grumbled. "I'm a grandfather for pity's sake. Suffice it to say, I've dated."

"No offense," Clara said, eyes widening. "But you seem kinda bad at it."

"Bad at it?! I'll have you know, I plan excellent dates. I took you to Sherwood Forest, didn't I?"

"That wasn't a date!"

"Yes, it was, beautiful woods, a babbling brook…until Robin Hood ruined it by showing up."

"Besides," she countered. "That was _my_ idea!"

"But who took you there in his time machine, hmm?" he said, raising a brow. "I take you nice places."

She rolled her eyes. "Doctor, I know you can show a girl a good time," she interjected. "I'm talking about the_ other _aspect of dating."

He blinked. "Which aspect?"

_Oh God._ She was going to have to spell it out. "You know, the, er, sexual part."

He turned red as her ball gown and brought his thumb to his lips, chewing on the pad nervously. "Oh, uh, like I said, Clara, I've fathered children. I'm just not that…assertive when it comes to the bedroom. It's why I've always had a penchant for bossy women."

"Oi! I am not bossy!"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, eyes dancing.

Sometimes she thought Time Lords might have been hatched or something. The Doctor seemed so nervous about physical contact – kissing, hugging, hand holding, you name it. Even the younger, bow-tied version, while eager, had still been utterly hopeless at it. "Just to be clear, you fathered children through…reproduction? Not mitosis, right?" She searched his face.

"Of course, by means of reproduction!" he snapped. "Time Lords are humanoid and therefore coitus is required to create offspring."

_Well…that wasn't the least bit sexy._ "How very clinical."

"You want a non-clinical description?" he said,raising his chin.

She thought of Malcolm's rather, er, earthy terms. "Why not? Thrill me."

He crooked a finger at her. "Come here."

Clara frowned. "I said description, not a demonstration."

"I need to whisper it to you."

With a long-suffering sigh, she leaned forward, head tilted to the side.

The Doctor placed his lips against her ear, a warm puff of breath gave her a reflexive shiver. "I know what you were doing with the copy earlier," he admitted.

"Malcolm," she corrected automatically.

"Right, well, I have done that before. River, um, provided some…. excellent tutelage in the area of, er, oral stimulation. I also had some prior experience with human females. Time Lords have something called a respiratory bypass and I—"

Right, so she got to hear about alien body parts and the former lovers. "Still clinical," Clara mocked.

He cleared his throat, mouth still pressed against her ear. "It means, Clara," he said slowly. "I am_ intimately_ familiar with female human anatomy both through practice and from manuals. I know precisely where the relevant nerve clusters are. I know how to stimulate them for maximum pleasure. With the bypass, I can also literally taste you for hours.I could make you…climax again and again without stopping."

"Oh, my." She pulled back to stare at him.

The Doctor licked his lips in what she had to call a salacious manner. "This is something I should probably demonstrate."

God, just the thought made her toes curl. He reached for her, but she backed away. "No." She had to keep her wits about her.

"No?" He looked perplexed. "But—"

"I haven't even agreed to go out with you." Her lips curled into a wicked little smile. "You're going to have to _earn_ it."

"Clara! I thought—"

'"I know very well what you thought," she bit out. "You assumed that I am only interested in Malcolm because he looks like you."

"Maybe," he hedged. "He doesn't look like me,_ exactly_, you know."

"No?"

"I'm taller," the Doctor insisted.

"You are not!" They were exactly the same height.

"I am too, Clara, at least by a couple of inches. I'm also a lot more clever."

"Whatever. You are missing the point. You also assumed I had a thing for Adrian at school. My romantic choices are my own, Doctor. It's arrogant to assume it always involves you. Malcolm means a lot more to me than a substitute for you."

"Fine," he ground out. "You mentioned something about earning you. How do I go about that?"

"First things first, kiss me." She needed to know if she'd imagined the chemistry between them the other day.

The Doctor hesitated, doing his familiar, nervous eye twitching.

She heaved a sigh. "Oh, for pity's sake, never mind."

Then, he frantically grasped the front of her nightgown, tugged her closer, and smooched her.

_Really awkwardly._

Like a desperate kiss from a teenage boy in the back seat of a car. It was all mashing their lips together and a bit too much moisture. She pulled back to stare up at him. To his credit, he looked just as bothered by it as she did.

"That was awful. Here, let's try it again." This time, she seized his shirt and hauled him towards her and then... magic.

Their mouths fit together perfectly. The Doctor opened his lips for her, letting her taste him, tease him with her tongue. She moaned into his mouth, reaching up to pull his head down, so she could get a better angle. He went obediently. Clara threaded her hands through his hair and kissed him deeply. She soon found herself growing wet, desire roaring to life once more.

When she finally pulled back, he was utterly silent, mouth parted, eyes hooded. He seemed completely captivated. Her lips curved into a wicked grin. Clara decided she could get used to this. She'd rendered him speechless, with a little kiss. Okay, with a mind-blowing kiss. Perhaps, she would date both Malcolm and the Doctor and teach them both a little lesson in the process.

Her eyes lit on his long-fingered, beautiful hands. "Now, I want you to stroke me."

His fingers curled and she knew he was picturing touching her. "Okay," he whispered, giving in way too easily.

She laid back one more, tilted her hips up and slid her knickers off, before moving the nightgown up to her waist.

The Doctor leaned over, staring at her sex. Once again, enthralled. He reached for her, hands shaking, and then met her gaze. "Are you sure you won't let me taste you?"

"Positive."

"Clara," he said, his tone beseeching. "Please, just let me—"

"Nope," she said firmly, popping the_ p_ for emphasis. Truthfully, since Malcolm had started that particular little dance, she wanted him to finish it. Besides, the Doctor needed to learn he didn't always get his way. At least not with her.

With a resigned groan, he slipped a finger inside lips and she parted her legs wider, to give him greater access. He stared down at their joined bodies, watching as his finger disappeared in her heated sex. "Oh, Clara."

Her eyes slammed shut. He was right about knowing exactly where to touch. He rubbed her clitoris in a slow, patient circle, creating a slow burn rhythm that made her ache. Clara writhed as he rubbed the swollen lips, and then expertly manipulated her clit once more, teasing her. She rocked her hips against him as he plucked at her, playing her body like a violin. Before long, Clara cried out, the orgasm rolling over her in waves.

When she opened her eyes, she found the Doctor sucking on his fingers, tasting her. "The copy was wrong about you," he murmured.

"How so?"

"You taste like sugared apricots."

Laughing, Clara fell back on the bed and promptly fell asleep.

**12**

The next day passed in a blur.

She'd woken up alone. The Doctor had scribbled a note for her saying he had "preparations to make" and he would see her the next evening. She'd gone to work, caught up on her marking, and managed to arrive on time at Malcolm's place. She picked out a black and white dress, with sensible white cotton knickers (to act as a barrier), and a pair of black heels.

When she arrived on his doorstep, Malcolm swung open the door to greet her. "Good evening, Clara." He wore a pair of khaki trousers and a white fleece over a blue shirt, looking deceptively casual and comfortable. "Am I permitted a kiss?"

"Not yet," she said primly. Though, she knew her resolve would fade soon after dinner.

"What about on the hand?" he said, extending his to her.

"Why not?" She let him take her hand in between both of his.

Big mistake.

He rubbed the back of it, causing a cascade of pleasant tingles to travel up her arm. "This is called hand kissing _a la francaise_," he explained.

He brought it slowly to his mouth, just grazing it with his breath. "It is an old world custom, I learned while on a brief holiday after university. I back-packed through Europe, staying in hostels, learning to cook, and shagging every pretty girl I could find."

She felt an involuntarily flare of jealousy.

"All of it practice."

"Practice for what?" Clara asked.

"For someone like you," he said softly. "Back to the kissing. You have to be careful and just barely breathe on a woman's hand." She felt his hot breath against her skin. "I stayed for quite a bit with a divorced woman in Paris and she taught me all about the proper way to kiss a woman's hand. Back in the day, kissing a single woman's hand would be considered shocking. And do you know what a kiss there means?"

Clara swallowed thickly, and shook her head, totally under his spell.

Keeping his eyes fastened on hers, he brushed a feather-light kiss over the back of her knuckles. Then, licked one of them, with his heated mouth. The caress reminded her of the way his lips had felt between her legs.

Suddenly, she was lost…

She gulped, trying not to slide into a little puddle of hormones at his feet. "What…what does it mean?" she said softly.

"It means I _desperately_ need you in my bed." He moved on to the next knuckle, laving it with his tongue, then biting slightly. "I literally cannot think about anything else, Clara."

Clara moaned.

Malcolm pulled her into his arms and she couldn't summon the will to protest. The next thing she knew, he had her in his arms, carrying her up the stairs. He laid her down gently on the queen-size wrought-iron bed with its crimson sheets, then proceeded to grab two velvet pouches from a nearby drawer. The bed was made and a vase of red roses sat on the nightstand.

_This felt planned…_

Too bad she couldn't think of a reason to stop him.

She glanced around the room. It was devoid of photos, or knickknacks. He had a black armchair in the corner of the room, along with a shelf stuffed full of books. There was an attached bathroom, but the door was closed. His closet was slightly ajar, and featured an array of pressed suits, arranged by color. The only slightly personal item, was a framed quote from Machiavelli: _Politics have no relation to morals. _To bring the point home, _The Prince _lay open on the chair. He'd evidently been reading was slightly disturbing to see, he'd placed sticky notes, ostensibly to mark important made a strange sort of sense though. If anyone would be a student of Machiavelli, it would be Malcolm.

"You said we would just have dinner."

"I lied." He smiled, completely unapologetic. "But you are welcome to come downstairs with me and I will make you dinner. No harm. No foul." He raised a questioning brow.

Her eyes lit on the velvet pouches. "What's in those?"

He grinned. "Is that a yes or a no, Clara? Are we staying up here or going downstairs?

Damn him for making her admit it. "We're staying up here," she admitted. "But I'm not ready for—"

"I know that. This is just me enticing you. Don't you want to finish what we started last night? Have you been thinking about my mouth between your legs?" To drive his point home, he placed a palm on her thigh, slowly sliding it up her legs, which parted on instinct.

She quivered despite herself. "Uh, yes, maybe I have."

"I want to taste you again, Clara. I want to make you come for me as you scream _my _name. Only this time I'm going to introduce a little twist and up the ante on this game." He patted the pouches. "Tell me, Clara, how do you feel about a bit of kinky fuckery?"

**Author's Note:** Oh, I know it is cruel to end it there, but this is a long chapter already! Happy, Holidays, Whouffaldians! I'm so excited for the Christmas special tomorrow! I can't wait. Fingers crossed, there will be an update of Spun tomorrow. I can't seem to stop writing it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Spun 8/?**

Clara watched Malcolm nervously. "I don't know."

Malcolm could feel his lips curving into a smile. Clara Oswald, for all her traveling the universe, still had a great deal of innocence. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to despoiling her. And now that he had a centuries-old, face-changing alien git as a rival, he had to up his game.

"Let me guess, the knobheads lucky enough to shag you didn't have the bollocks to try anything beyond the basic?"

Adorably, she bit her lower lip. "Well, a bit more than that, but not _much_ more. Danny wasn't exactly…adventurous. Not that I'm complaining," she said quickly. "It was kind of endearing, really. And the professor was a bit more bold, but not much."

If it was possible, he got harder. He had a lot to teach her. "What do you say then? Give it a go?"

After a second, she met his eyes, the slightest hint of a challenge in their golden brown depths. "Absolutely. I'm willing to try."

He grinned. _Brave girl._ "If you don't like something, say 'satsuma' and I'll stop, yeah?"

"Got it." She gestured to the velvet pouches. "So what do you have in the bags?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Hang on a mo. Let's get you more comfortable, first." She was definitely wearing too much clothing. He hadn't yet had the privilege of seeing her completely naked.

Pretty as you please, Clara stood up and presented him with her back. He was ashamed to say, his hand shook as he slowly dragged her zipper down, careful not to pinch her tender skin. It was hard to go slow, to be controlled. He'd been hard all fucking day and the anticipation had made his cock weep for her. He'd nearly soaked his pants. He hadn't been this needy, this hungry for a woman in decades.

She turned around and slowly slid out of her dress, then removed her bra. Clara would always be a lovely woman. She had a cute heart-shaped face, big wide-spaced eyes, and a good bone structure. But, as a young woman, she had the added glory of youth. She had velvety skin, high, perky tits capped with pinkish-brown nipples, and he was already fucking in love with her snug pussy.

With a hiss, he hooked his thumbs in her innocent little cotton knickers and tugged them down her thighs, leaving her deliciously naked. His prick reared in his pants, ready for a go at her.

_Fuck me, I promised not to take it too far._

"Lay down," he said hoarsely. Clara did as he asked, propping herself up on her elbows to watch him.

Malcolm sat on the edge of the bed and took a calming breath. "When I was doing the poor man's version of a grand tour after university, I stayed in hostels and sometimes park benches when I ran out of money," he said conversationally. "But often, I found myself residing with older women. They were usually divorced and didn't mind teaching a clueless wanker like me about properly pleasing a woman. One of those women had a taste for exotic fucking and she got me started."

He opened one of the pouches and pulled out a delicate set of chains. They were long, fashioned out of thin silver links, the same kind you might find in a necklace chain. Along the chains were tiny bells as well, as well as two bracelets and two anklets, which served as manacles. The set of chains were more decorative than functional. When he'd had them made two years ago, he hadn't had a partner in mind. He'd just fantasized about restraining a woman with them and had them made on the off chance that he'd ever have the perfect bed partner. He didn't know it at the time, but he'd had them fashioned for Clara.

Clara, gasped when she saw them. but she wasn't frightened. No, her sweet little mouth fell open, her pupils dilated. She wanted this, every bit as much as he did.

"Give me your wrists."

Looking up at him with a mischievous smile, she offered him her arms. He quickly fastened the bracelets and then unrolled the chain along the length of her beautiful body, before clasping each anklet. Tiny little keys closed the locks, one for the anklets, one for the bracelets.

She looked so damn fuckable. The chains only emphasized her nudity and touched off all sorts of harem girl fantasies.

With a grin, he pocketed the keys. "Just like that, I have you under fucking lock and key."

"And what exactly are you going to do with me, Mr. Tucker, now that you have me at your mercy?" Her voice was lower, throaty, and it made his cock jump. He could swear the fucking thing was trying to rip through his pants, get at her of its own accord.

"I'm going to make you beg for me, Clara. I intend to give you so much pleasure you forget about other men." _Especially that fucking alien with no last name._

There was an unmistakable gleam in her eyes, a wordless challenge, along with desire. How fucking hot is that? "That's a tall order. Can you deliver?"

"You're about to see. Lie back for me."

She did, perching on the pillows, her legs slightly spread. He ran a hand down along her body. She was soft, the skin unlined. How the fuck did he get so lucky? Her nipples stood at attention and he could see the lips of her sex had a glossy sheen.

_Mmm…good. _She was readying herself for him.

He stood up and walked to the door. "I just need a little something from the fridge first." With that, he left her to stew in her own juices, so to speak.

Minutes later, he returned with two dessert sauces. Malcolm always kept them on hand for ice cream. He held up the clear plastic squeeze bottles for her to see. "The first is a strawberry reduction and the second is a chocolate sauce."

A bemused expression settled on her face. "And what are you going to do with those?"

"Paint you, sweetheart." First, he struggled out of his clothes. He didn't bother with a sexy striptease. Men looked fucking ridiculous doing them and he was too eager to have her eyes on his cock. There was something primal and male about showing your prick to a woman. You needed them to see how fucking hard you were for them, needed them to want it inside of their bodies. As Clara took him in, in all his thick and hard glory, her mouth parted and he groaned, imagining her tasting the deep purple head, sliding his cock into her heated mouth.

But not now. Tonight was about her pleasure.

Malcolm set about making the living canvas of her body into a fucking masterpiece. He glazed her nipples with the strawberry, then circled the areola in chocolate. Before doing some decorative stripes of both sauces down the line of her abdomen, decorating her like he would a plate. He finally drizzled a bit of each sauce on her lower stomach, just centimeters away from her puffy sex. He stood back and admired his own handiwork.

Best fucking dessert he'd ever made. "Let me explain the game, sweetheart," he said quickly.

Her eyes were a little dazed. She licked her lips. "Game?"

"I need you to hold perfectly still for me. I'm about to have some dessert and I don't want you to move a muscle. If you do, those little bells will start ringing and then do you know what happens?"

"What?" she asked breathlessly.

"I start over," he murmured.

"Oh," she moaned.

"So, be a good girl and don't move."

With a growl, Malcolm bent over here. He tasted her a nipple, lapping it. The strawberry, her warm skin, the soft little sighs she made were almost too much. She tasted fucking divine. Then, he kissed a path to her other breast and sucked the nipple into his mouth, drawing on it.

Clara suddenly arched up to meet him and the bells rang.

He laughed against her skin.

She mewled in protest. "No, but—"

"Rules is rules, sweetheart." He laughed and made a grab for a bottle of sauce. "Looks like I get a bit more dessert."

It took three more attempts, before he finally tasted her lower stomach. Clara's hands fisted in the duvet and her eyes were squeezed shut, teeth sunken into her lower lip. She remained resolutely still, but he could see the effort it cost her.

By the time, he bent to taste her sex, which needed no added sweetness, she was panting. He drank her in hungrily, devouring her sex, growling against her. She was hot, slick, and syrupy. Malcolm didn't think he'd ever get enough of her.

He had gotten so close last time. With a snarl, he hitched her legs over his shoulders, cupping her arse, and spreading her wide for him. So help him fucking God, if that alien dick showed up, he could fucking watch. Malcolm had no intention of stopping.

He didn't stop licking her until she cried out for , he lowered her back to the bed and reached for the second velvet pouch. He withdrew a tiny silver vibrator, he'd picked up that afternoon. It was the perfect size for her clit and he switched it on and buzzed it against her.

She made the most decadent, needy noise.

He nudged the vibrator against her once more and then pushed two fingers deep inside her sex, plunging in and out. This time, she rocked against him and the bells were ringing, jingling in earnest and he didn't stop. Who was he fucking kidding? Couldn't stop. Not even if he wanted to. He worked her ruthlessly, needing to hear her cries.

He was dying to fuck her, push his cock right in that inviting velvet warmth. But she'd said she wasn't ready. So, he'd settle for making her cum, for making her scream his fucking name.

"Look at me!" Malcolm demanded when she was close.

Blearily, she peered at him. She was a sight. Her nipples were hard, her chest flushed, her legs wide open for him.

"Who's touching you?" he asked.

"Malcolm," she whispered.

"That's right," he growled. "_Malcolm._ Whose about to make you cum?"

"Malcolm!" She arched again and this time, he bent and sucked her clit into his mouth, pulling on it, grazing it with his teeth. Biting it slightly.

Clara screamed then, the orgasm making her body shake as it rolled through her. "Malcolm! Oh, Malcolm!"

He howled in triumph, loving the breathy way she'd called his name. When her movements ceased, and she lay there, dazed and satisfied, he crawled up her body, shaking and so fucking horny he thought he might actually die.

Malcolm was cock deep in blue ball hell. He couldn't remember wanting a woman more.

Clara opened her eyes, taking in his straining erection. "Let me stroke you." She reached for him and he moaned as she made contact. She fisted his cock in her little hand and rubbed him, running her thumb over the tip now and then, working him

It didn't take him long.

He'd been on edge since he met her and no amount of wanking diminished the hunger. With a shout, he coated her lower stomach.

Malcolm smiled at the sight of his seed on her skin. It felt like he had just marked her as is. In fact, Clara felt like his and he wouldn't let her go without a fucking fight.

The spaceman had better watch his uptight arse.

Spent, he laid down beside Clara, and tugged her into his arms. Intertwined, they both drifted off to sleep.

**12**

At precisely 12:06 AM, the Doctor arrived at the imposter's home.

When he'd gone to Clara's flat, the place had been empty and he assumed she was still with the bad copy. The man's home was dark and he searched all the rooms until he warily entered the bedroom…only to get a knife to both hearts.

He found them cuddled up together on the bed, bodies tangled. The copy's head rested on her pillow and he had a leg pushed brazenly between her thighs, his hand covered a bared breast. For a moment he stared in stunned fascination, as though watching a scene from one of his many fevered daydreams come to life. He was literally seeing himself curled against Clara.

But it wasn't him. She was lying in another man's arms and it nearly killed him.

Did Clara let him make love to her? The thought alone tortured him.

The Doctor gritted his teeth as a flare of rage stormed through his body. He'd prided himself on being able to control his emotions, something his race had mastered over millennia. He didn't feel as deeply as humans did most of the time and for good reason. When he did let emotion get the better of him, bad things happened. Galaxies burned. Cyber fleets got blasted into smithereens. Dalek ships exploded.

People died.

Right now, he felt like dragging the other man out of bed, giving him a good punch in the face…for starters. He'd never been one for violence, but this guy had it coming. Maybe he could drop the copy off at one of the Dalek's prison camps? It wouldn't be like he actually killed him…conscience clear, right? He closed his eyes, trying to reign in his wrath.

Instead, he focused on Clara, and getting her the hell out of this awful place.

Clara had promised him a shot at winning her and he intended to give it his all. So, he'd content himself with whisking her away from the copy, right out from under his nose. The Doctor crossed to her side of the bed, and started to carefully pick her up.

But the man started to stir and the Doctor jabbed a finger at his forehead, willing him back to sleep. "Not so fast, pudding-brain. Stay knocked out unless you want a black eye."

Then, he bent over Clara once more. He also touched a finger to her temple, lulling her into a very deep sleep before scooting her out from beneath the sheet. He gasped when he discovered she was completely naked…and inexplicably sticky? Utilizing his highly sensitive olfactory senses, he noted the presence of strawberry and chocolate…?! Along with the scent of other human..fluids.

The fury bubbled up once more and he tamped it down viciously.

Then, he noted she was in chains, tiny silver chains. The Doctor was no stranger to unusual sexual play, but _he'd_ always been the one tied up. He could'n't fathom why you'd went to tie Clara up. "What sort of depraved things did he do to you?" he whispered to Clara as he used the sonic to free her. With a malicious smirk, he used the heat setting on the sonic and fused the chains together, creating a useless lump of metal.

_Take that, pudding-brain._

With a growl, he tugged at the sheet, whipping it off the copy and wrapping it around her prone body. He decided to give her a bath once he got her back on board the TARDIS. For now, he cherished the slight weight of her against his chest. He hadn't held her like this since he'd worn a stupid bow-tie and he'd missed it.

Why had he ever stopped?

He hurried to the TARDIS, stopping in the control room to lay in coordinates for France, and then whisked Clara into a warm bath he'd drawn in a claw-footed bathtub in his own bathroom. The most efficient way to cleanse her would be the chemical shower unit he used to decontaminate himself when he'd been exposed to interstellar germs, or toxic substances. The Doctor thought the shouty human copy qualified as a noxious substance, but the chem unit wouldn't be the most enjoyable way to clean Clara up.

No, he had something much more personal in mind.

The bathroom was TARDIS blue with a huge white tub, a tile shower, along with a ceramic sink and toilet. The Doctor removed his overcoat, waistcoat, and rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt. Then, he knelt next to the tub, on a thick woven rug and stroked her forehead, willing Clara awake. With a startled gasp, she took in her surroundings with wide, wary eyes. Finally, her gaze lit on him.

"Doctor?" she asked hesitantly.

He smiled, pleased that she'd used _his _name. "Yes, it's me."

"H-How did I get here? Is here…the TARDIS?" She glanced around the room.

"Yes, you're in my bathroom, onboard," he said quickly. "I carried you here." He snagged a sponge from a nearby drawer, along with a bottle of citrus shower gel.

Her face darkened. "Wait a minute! I was in Malcolm's bed!"

"Yes," he said patiently, "And now you're in my bathtub. Keep up."

"But that means you took me from his bedroom because I don't remember leaving with you."

He couldn't keep a smug smile from tugging at his lips, indulging in a bit of a gloat. "Yes, I did. I slid you right out of his arms. He'll wake up tomorrow morning and get a nasty surprise."

"Doctor!"

"What? You said that'd you spend the day with me. I didn't specify as to when that day would begin."

"No, you left me a note stating you'd see me today. Big difference." She frowned. "What time is it?"

"Time is relative," he said quickly. "Especially for a time traveler."

She scowled at him, her face becoming pinched. She often wore that expression when he'd done something she deemed wrong. "Doctor, what time is it?" she demanded.

"A bit after midnight, from your perspective." He dunked the sponge in the hot water and then spread some of the gel on it.

He brought it to her thigh, but Clara seized his hand. "What do you think you are you doing?"

Wasn't it obvious? "Giving you a bath," he said slowly, in case she hadn't guessed. "You've got pudding-brain all over you."

She turned bright red and brought her hands to her face. "Oh my God!"

"What is it?"

"This is too embarrassing." Clara snatched the sponge from him. "Let me clean myself up."

"No!" He'd been looking forward to bathing her, touching every bit of her…stroking her. Then, he thought he'd persuade her to lie down with_ him_ in his bed.

He shook his head, coming back to himself. and held his hand out for the sponge. "Let me continue."

"Not going to happen," she said, raising her chin, daring him to take it from her.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Can I watch?" Observing a wet, nude Clara was better than nothing.

Clara didn't say anything, but she didn't shoo him out of the room either, so he took that as permission to stay.

At first, she scrubbed herself efficiently, running it down her neck, over her arms, and then the Doctor noticed she moved slower, holding up one of her legs and letting the soap and water cascade down the length of it, as she slowly ran it along her ankle, calf, and then her thigh.

He had to shove his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her. Was she teasing him?

She continued to do this, trailing the sponge along the parts of her body he was most desperate to touch – trailing over each breast, between her thighs. He was painfully hard, had been since he'd taken her into his arms, nude and unresistant. The Doctor licked his lips. "Clara," he said hoarsely.

"Yes?" she said with wide and deceptively innocent eyes.

"Let me wash you," he pleaded. Never in a million years would he have guessed that a human woman would bring him quite literally to his knees, begging for just the opportunity to touch her.

"No," she said cruelly.

And damn if her refusal didn't turn him on even more. It was his curse, he supposed, falling for women who took control of him. "Please?"

"No." She slowly shook her head. "But you can help me out of the bath."

He jumped to his feet and pulled a thick, fluffy towel from the cupboard. Clara stood up and he wrapped her in it, then hoisted her out of the tub, setting her on the rug beside him.

She snuggled up in the over-sized towel. "My skin gets really dry in the winter. Can you get me the lotion from the nightstand in my room?"

"Yes," he said quickly. Right now, he'd be willing to do just about anything she asked.

"Thank you."

He hurried out of the room, but her voice stopped him in the doorway. "If you're quick, I'll let you put it on me…and Doctor?" she said, her voice lowering to a seductive little purr that made his manhood jump in response.

"Yes?" he croaked.

"I like to put lotion all over my skin. Everywhere."

The Doctor raced out of the room, moving faster than he ever had before.


	9. Chapter 9

**Spun 9**

While Clara waited for the Doctor to return with her lotion, she wrapped up in the bath sheet he'd given her and explored his bedroom, which was attached to the bathroom. At least she thought it was a bedroom. It smelled slightly salty, of the sea. And when she stepped into it, the room rocked ever so slightly, like she had walked onto a boat. Beneath her bare feet was TARDIS blue carpet, but it felt like sand between her toes.

Clearly, there was some Time Lord weirdness going on here.

The bed itself was equally odd. It was an peculiar sort of Steampunk affair with a boat as a bed. Or was it a bed as a boat? It was a large wooden ship, shaped like a sailboat without the actual sails and instead of a cabin, a mattress. The rest of the furniture was fairly regular, a nightstand, a wardrobe, a large steamer trunk at the end of the bed.

The Doctor also had one of his leather wing-backed chairs in the room located next to what appeared to be a porthole in the wall, only instead of the sea, she saw stars outside. The TARDIS has windows other than the ones near the door? Or was it an optical illusion?

She sat down in the chair and felt something hard brushing against her thigh. Stuffed beside the cushion, was a book of unmistakably erotic poetry, judging by the illustrations alone. It was a slim leather-bound volume, with poems in several languages she couldn't read, nor even recognize. But she did find a few in standard Earth English, including one by Emily Dickinson, _Come Slowly— Eden! _ The poem was one of her favorites, describing a shy "bee" (a man) who is eager for (feminine) nectar. It was a sly wink and a nod to sexuality.

"Clara?" he called walking into the room, with the lotion in hand. "I'm here to moisturize you," he said with a quirky little smile. She was certain she was missing some sort of private joke.

But then the most charming blush settled on his high cheekbones when he noticed the volume in her hand.

"How scandalous, Doctor," she said with mock reproval.

"Yes, well, at least you didn't find the etchings." He lifted his chin, a cheeky grin forming. "You haven't even read the ones in alien tongues."

_Etchings? Hmm._ She'd have to go on a hunting expedition after those, along with the drawings he kept hidden. "I can only imagine."

The Doctor licked his lips deliberately. "Speaking of alien tongues…"

Clara sucked in a breath. _Oh, he was playing dirty now_. He'd promised her oral pleasure, but she had something else in mind. In order to see the plan through, she had to retain the upper hand.

She shook her head to clear it. The Doctor was flirting with her, teasing her. Who knew he was capable? "I said you could put lotion on me. That's it."

"Yes, but there's no harm in pushing for more," he said cleverly. "Have you ever read _If You Give a Mouse A Cookie_? It's the same principle."

Clara was familiar with the children's book. "_You've_ read that book?"

"I can't always be paging through the Wally ones, now can I? Children's literature is often more entertaining the adult variety. Besides, I've read most of your planet's books, Clara." He crossed to the bed/boat. "Come on then. It's time we got underway."

_He was getting far too comfortable…_

She had no doubt he'd quickly formulated a plan to seduce her while he fetched the lotion. Clara was willing to bet his pride had been wounded when she'd refused to let him wash her. Plus, finding her in another man's bed probably hadn't helped. His big, Time Lord brain had made some quick calculations and he'd decided to try her boundaries, see what he could get away with.

No surprise there. He often pushed her buttons, which made her relationship with him a lot more tumultuous than it used to be. This new incarnation battled her for control. She didn't mind ceding it to him when they were fighting some alien threat, but everything else was a worth a tussle.

She knew he ultimately enjoyed assertive women. He'd told her so, for one, Plus, she'd gotten a chance to meet River Song who wasn't exactly the shy, retiring sort. So, this situation called for immediate action.

Clara, very calmly and deliberately stood up.

The Doctor raised a brow, giving her his patented "arrogant bastard smile"which held an unmistakable challenge.

With a wicked grin, she dropped the towel.

The bottle of lotion clattered to the floor.

She sighed. That was rather easy._ Clara: 1. Doctor: 0._

The Doctor watched her walk, mouth ajar, gaze riveted to her every movement. Hastily, he shoved his hands in his pockets. Clara wondered if he was trying to hide an erection.

She padded over to the bed and then laid down on her stomach. Grabbing a thick pillow, she positioned it beneath her chin and rolled over ever so slightly.

He still gaped at her, this time his eyes roving over her backside with intense interest. "Well?" she asked imperiously.

"Right. Lotion. Yes." He nodded and scooped up the bottle before anointing his hands with some of it, rubbing it between his palms to get it warm. Smirking, Clara turned over once more.

_Yes, everything was going according to plan._

**12**

With shaking hands, perched precariously on his knees next to her, the Doctor reached for Clara.

He'd intended to shake her up a bit, but now he was the one all wobbly and weak. He started at her shoulder blades, slowly stroking her, making a steady path to the small of her back. Her skin was ineffably smooth and supple beneath his fingertips. She was so young, utterly, hearts-stoppingly beautiful, and lying on his bed. How many times had he imagined her like this? How many long and lonely Trenzalore nights had he pictured her under his hands, his mouth, his tongue?

The reality was a thousand times better than his frenzied fantasies.

For now, he didn't permit himself the luxury of touching the firm perfection of her buttocks. Instead, he smeared his hands with lotion once more and stroked lightly down her thighs, her calves, and then captured one dainty little foot in his hands. He rubbed the heel and then moved to the center, which made her toes curl and she gave a little moan, pressing her face into the pillow.

The Doctor smiled, relishing every single sigh, every touch. He'd held himself back for so long. Kept her at a deliberate distance. While the Doctor made toys for the children of Christmas, he'd only really had Handles for a companion. As much as he'd come to adore that robot head, it was a poor substitute for a real person. There was a reason he didn't travel alone.

It changed him and not for the better. He had gotten harder, fiercer in all those centuries without her.

While he might be caressing her, making Clara relax into his touch_, he_ was the one who could feel the pressure leaving his body. The walls between them, the barriers that he'd erected started to crumble.

_Yes, touch was a powerful thing._

Finally, he permitted himself the privilege of touching her lovely little bum, moisturizing both mounds. Clara arched, giving him a glimpse of the pink perfection between her thighs.

His mouth watered.

Surely he had suffered enough. She had to let him taste her. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself between her thighs, spend the night kissing her, licking her. He fantasized about giving her orgasm after orgasm. He wanted to hear her cries, bring her pleasure.

"Clara," he said hoarsely, "let me lick you."

But she, evidently, had other plans.

Clara rolled over, thighs slightly spread. He couldn't help but look, gaze longingly at the swollen pink folds. Clara snapped her fingers. She looked up at him, ensnared him with her gaze. Then, shook her head. "No, Doctor. You haven't finished the job I gave you."

"You mean you want…" He stopped mid-sentence, gesturing to her body. He could feel a blush staining his cheeks. _For pity's sake!_ He was a centuries-old Time Lord, not a school boy, but she flustered him. Provoked him in the most delicious ways.

She grinned, that cute little coquettish one that made his insides twist into little knots. "Oh, yes, Doctor, you need to do the front."

Another deposit of lotion. He reached for her and then hesitated, unsure of where he wanted his hands most. The creamy expanse of her abdomen? Perhaps the the mounds of her breasts. Clara batted his hand away. He looked at her in askance.

Her eyes dropped to the very obvious tent in his trousers. "You're wearing too many clothes, Doctor," she said reprovingly. "Take them off."

Perhaps Clara was trying to torture him? If so, he was a willing victim. No, an eager one. He dispensed with the white shirt first, tossing it on the floor with abandon. Then, shyly, he undid his flies, and pushed down both his trousers and pants, leaving them in a puddle at his feet.

He couldn't ever remember being this hard, nearly vibrating with need. He hadn't been with anyone since River and that had been centuries ago. This particular body had never been touched by anyone. For all intents and purposes, he'd regained his virginity. He certainly felt as untried and untested as one.

Clara touched him, licking her lips, and he hissed, imagining her tongue on him, gliding up the length of his shaft. "Exactly the same," she muttered, brushing the tip of his manhood.

"I'm sorry. What?" the Doctor managed to say. Brain. Wasn't. Functioning.

Suddenly, she was focused on his cock in an empirical, scientific way. "You and Malcolm. You are exactly the same. Down to…well, every detail."

His hands clenched. "No! Don't talk about _him_ now. Not when we're doing…this."

Suddenly, the teasing light was back in her eyes. "You're right, I'm sorry." She leaned towards him, her mouth hovering a centimeter or so from the straining purple tip of him. "How does this feel, Doctor?"

Slowly, she blew on him, caressing him with a hot burst of air and he literally howled in frustration. "Clara, please!"

"Oh, I like hearing you say that," she murmured. Suddenly, she seized him by the hands, drawing him down the bed. He lay back and then she straddled him, seating herself on his lower thighs. The Doctor could feel the hot, wet heat of her against his skin. His penis stood straight up straining towards her. He needed to be in her.

She pressed her hands to his torso, ruffling the smattering of silver hair.

"Are you trying to make me beg?" he said roughly.

She nodded, a smile playing about her lips.

Such a little egomaniac! He loved it. Loathed it. Well, a healthy dose of both of those extremes. She drove him mad in the most pleasurable way. "Clara, I need you." His hips bucked involuntarily. He thought if he didn't get inside her, he might just die.

"I need you too, Doctor, but not just quite yet." She seemed to be writing something on his chest with the tip of her forefinger.

He licked his lips. "W-what are you doing?"

"Putting my name on you. That way you know you belong to me."

He shut his eyes against the eroticism of that idea. Clara's name on his skin. _Ah, to be hers._ "Clara, please…"

"Ooh," she crooned. "There's that beautiful word again, but not yet, Doctor. I'm enjoying making you squirm." She glanced at her surroundings, feigning disinterest in him. Such a little game-player. "You really do have the strangest bedroom."

He forced himself to make witty conversation, but his blood flow currently was heading in the opposite direction of his formidable mind. "Yes, well, I have a thing for ships."

She chuckled. "I've noticed. And apparently, a thing for erotic poetry, too."

Truthfully, he'd been reading those and picturing himself and Clara. Erotic poetry engaged both the mind and the body. She made him feel distinctly…lusty. He'd been taking himself in hand the past few nights. Stroking himself to oblivion.

It wasn't enough.

"There's a couple in there by Emily Dickinson," he remarked.

"Yes, I saw the honeybee one," she murmured, fondling his thighs.

He bucked again, his erection straining, fluid leaking from the purplish-red tip. "My favorite is Wild Nights," he confessed. "I even memorized it."

She raised a brow, giving him a school teacher expression. "Recite it for me then."

He cleared his throat, but his voice sounded hoarse when he spoke. "Wild nights –wild nights! Were I with thee, Wild nights should be our luxury! Futile –the winds—To Heart in port. Done with the Compass—Done with the Chart!"

It spoke to him of his travels, how he abandoned all direction and went where whim took him. That sort of mentality suited him both in life and in bed.

"Rowing in Eden –Ah, the Sea! Might I but moor –tonight," the Doctor paused, focusing on Clara's wet, luscious sex. "In thee."

Clara shuddered this time.

_Please let her have mercy on me._ "Let me in, Clara," he entreated, arching up against her. "Let me in and I will love you all night long."

"No, Doctor, _I'm_ in control, not you." To prove her point, she captured his erection between the lips of her heated sex and ground against him. Slowly riding him, like a horse. It was enough to tease him to the point of madness, but it offered no real satisfaction. She was smooth and silky against him, utterly perfect. It was the ultimate tease, he got the feel of her, but he wasn't inside. No penetration.

"Clara!" he groaned. "Clara, Clara, Clara…" Her name was part plea, part benediction.

She rode him mercilessly, rubbing herself against him, using his erection for her own erotic stimulation. He pushed up against her, trying in vain to penetrate her. Until she finally moaned her release. With a groan, he finished as well, spattering them both with his seed. It satisfied him for the moment, yes, but it only ultimately increased his craving. He had to have her. _Had_ to.

After cleaning them both up with a cloth, he turned off the lights. Then jumped back into bed. Exhausted and joyous, he hauled her into his arms and held her as they both drifted off to sleep to the rocking of the waves.

**12**

Hours later, Clara's phone rang.

She woke up alone, but that was no surprise. The Doctor hardly slept. She found the phone on top of her clothing, which had been folded and placed at the end of the bed. The Doctor must have also taken them from Malcolm's place. She checked the caller i.d.

_Speak of the Devil…_

"Clara! I woke up and you were gone. Are you okay? What happened?" Malcolm said, all in a rush.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm. The Doctor showed up at your place. He took me while I was asleep or I would have left you a note," she said quickly as she sat cross-legged on the bed.

"The bastard broke into my house to fucking abduct you while you were unconscious in bed next to me?" he said incredulously. "Let me guess he wanted to give you a good, hard probing?"

She groaned, silently cursing the Doctor for creating this relationship drama. "There was no probing!" she promised.

"No?" he said. His voice was even and calm, but she could sense the underlying tension.

"No, Malcolm, I promise." Near probing, but nothing was actually…er,inserted.

He sighed, the tension leaving. "The bastard must have melted the chains, too. The next time I see him, I'll shove the—"

"Yeah, I think we're going to avoid any other meetings between the two of you," Clara said, interrupting the tirade. "But let me make this up to you. Why don't you come over to my place tonight? I'll make dinner his time." Her voice dropped to a husky murmur. "Maybe we could do bit more kinky fuckery?"

Malcolm paused and she swore she could hear his smile. "I love the way you think, sweetheart. Consider it a date. In the meantime, use the cat toy on that twat if he tries to_ insert_ anything. And watch your arse, aliens are fucking fascinated by those."

"By what?"

"Bums. Why do you think he carries that space dildo?"

Chuckling, Clara finalized her plan with him and they hung up.

She threw on her clothes and went in search of the Doctor. She found him in the control room. He was frowning at the scanner.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He glanced up, blinking. He'd been so intent, he hadn't heard her. He seemed…perplexed and a little distant, troubled. "Nothing."

"Doctor, tell me. You definitely have _something_ face."

"I don't want to worry you." He held out his arms to her and she nearly ran into them.

"God,I've missed hugging you." She wrapped her arms around his waist, relishing the contact.

He kissed the top of her head. "Me too." Then, he squirmed out of the hug. He wanted more affection…but only a bit more.

Clara chuckled. He seemed to be more of a cuddler after sex. "Tell me what's going on."

He opened his mouth to argue and then relented. "After I left you…..I found other copies, Clara. I put my fingers in the telepathic circuits and focused on other versions of me. There are more than just your shouty pudding-brain. One in France, one in Pompeii, one in an alternate universe. And I bet there are others."

"Other men with your face, you mean?" she said, coming closer to view the scanner. On it, she found a crimson-clad, version of the Doctor in a cape and high leather boots. "Cardinal Richelieu," she read. "He looks just like you."

"No," the Doctor huffed. "He doesn't. That ridiculous mustache!"

Clara just shook her head. "So, why are there all these, er,yous running around?"

"I don't know, Clara," the Doctor said quickly, "but I think we should investigate."

She nodded. There had to be a reason. "Okay, where to first?"

He scowled. "London. We'll collect your pudding-brain first."

"Oh, no, we most certainly will not!" Clara said, putting her hands on her hips.

"Clara, we need to talk to all of the copies. Ask them questions, try to get to the bottom of this. There could be danger."

"Look, I get it. We need to find out what is going on, in case there might a problem, but please don't call Malcolm a copy," she bit out. "He might look like you, but that's it. He isn't just some duplicate. He isn't another puzzle."

The Doctor smiled nearly broke her heart. He appeared to have developed a fault.

"Yes, I'm all too aware of your affection for him. But I need information, Clara," the Doctor said gently.

She sighed. He'd clearly already made up his mind. No changing it now.

He punched in the coordinates and away they went.

Clara texted Malcolm, just to give him a heads up and received a torrent of profanity aimed at the Doctor in return.

This was rapidly shaping up to be the day from hell…

**Author's Note:** The cardinal will make a seductive, wicked appearance in this next chapter. Clara will be trying to get some information from him. This will remain a love triangle, however, not a quadrangle…or more. Expect a couple of other Capaldis too!

**Poem:** _Come Slowly—Eden! _The full text of the poem is available here:_ poem/182807  
><em>


	10. Chapter 10

**Spun 10/?**

By the time the TARDIS appeared in Malcolm's living room, Clara was in a state. The Doctor and Malcolm didn't exactly get along and she anticipated having to play referee.

When the TARDIS doors opened, she found Malcolm standing next to the couch in a grim, grey suit, arms crossed in a forbidding pose over his chest. He scowled at the Doctor who followed on her heels.

"Well, if it isn't the fucking body snatcher himself," Malcolm drawled, addressing the Doctor.

"Foul-mouthed pudding-brain," the Doctor rejoined.

Clara heaved a long-suffering sigh. Right now she needed some aspirin or maybe some wine. Perhaps both.

She crossed to Malcolm and, standing on tiptoe, pressed a hello kiss to the corner of his mouth. His features softened and he bent to whisper in her ear. "Hello, sweetheart." He caressed her cheek with the palm of his hand, clearly happy to see her. "I believe I missed you."

She smiled. "Missed you, too." It had only been a couple of weeks, but she was fond of him, more than she had intended to be.

Then, with an exaggerated leer, he seized her shoulders and pulled her in against his body for a deep, very thorough kiss. Clara knew he did it to needle the Doctor, and it made her a little angry.

But it still made her knees weak. _Damn him._

The Doctor stepped closer, seized her elbow and peeled her off of Malcolm, then placed himself between them. "Stop mauling Clara. We need information."

He glanced at his ever present Blackberry. "Make it fast. I'm due at Downing in an hour."

The Doctor inspected Malcolm's face. "You and I aren't the only ones who have these features. There are others."

Malcolm looked bored. "And you want me to give a fuck, why?"

"Because the universe is a complicated place and she doesn't make many duplicates. Sure, the occasional set of twins, triplets even. But never this many doppelgangers. It has to be more than a mere coincidence," the Doctor snapped. "How long have you had that face?"

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "What? You think I had plastic surgery and _this _is the fucking mug I chose?"

The Doctor stared at him, waiting.

Sometimes, sarcasm was lost on the Time Lord.

Malcolm stared back. "How long have I looked this way? My whole fucking life, spaceman."

"Are you certain?" the Doctor asked, quirking a brow. "Human beings have a very limited brain capacity. Perhaps you forgot."  
>Clara placed a hand to her forehead. She knew by now the Doctor wasn't intentionally rude. He was just impatient and didn't quite understand human interaction. She could see Malcolm simmering, just about to blow his lid. So, she interjected, "So, we've established you've had that face your entire life. Um, er," she broke off, trying to find the right phrasing. "What about the rest of you?"<p>

Malcolm's eyes became hooded. "I'm a bit worn these days, sweetheart, but all the basic parts have always been there." His voice was a low rumble. "And all in working order."

She swallowed thickly and then glanced at the Doctor. "Like I said. You two are identical."

"I still think I'm taller," The Doctor argued, standing next to Malcolm and lifting his shoulders slightly, as though trying to appear taller.

"Get the fuck away from me," Malcolm snarled.

She stifled a laugh. "You aren't taller, Doctor. Trust me. What I'm saying is, I don't think its just the faces. Your bodies are identical._ Exactly_. Arms, legs, chests, those amazing hands, and, uh, other things…" She could feel a blush creeping up her cheeks.

Like twins, they stared at her, eyebrows raising, moving in absolute unison, equal parts dismay and irritation.

It was sort of eerie.

Malcolm picked up the gist of what she'd said. "You've seen his c—"

"Yes!" Clara said quickly, cutting him off.

The Doctor gave Malcolm his smug bastard grin. "She spent the night in my bed."

"Yes, you had to fucking abduct her to make that happen. I know because you snatched her from _my_ bed." Malcolm shouted.

"I'v had enough!" Clara yelled, going full on school teacher. "Shut up and pay attention. Do either of you have a birthmark? Some sort of distinguishing characteristic, something definitive that we can use to determine if you are completely identical?"

The Doctor nodded. "Good idea." He pointed at Malcolm. "Well, sweary, do you have one?"

"You first," he spit out through gritted teeth.

The Doctor looked distinctly uncomfortable, eyes darting away. "I have one on my...bottom," he said hesitantly. "River used to say it resembled a spiral."

Malcolm chuckled. "Bottom? Are you fucking five years old? And who was River, your mummy?"

"My former wife!" The Doctor snapped. "Do you have the same birthmark or not?"

Malcolm turned to Clara, ignoring the other man. "I, too, have a spiral on my left arse cheek, it's barely the size of a penny, a sort of pinkish-brown." He waggled his eyebrows. "Wanna see it?"

The Doctor gaped at him. "That's where mine is located!"

"Good for you," Malcolm growled. "Now fuck off."

Clara rubbed her neck. She could feel the tension forming between her shoulder blades.

"Shut up!" The Doctor shouted at the other man. Then, he addressed Clara. "Empiricism is essential, Clara. We must make certain they are alike."

"_You_ aren't getting anywhere near my arse," Malcolm growled. He comically widened his eyes at Clara. "I told you. Probe."

"Fine! I will do the checking! Just shut up and do as you are told. Both of you," Clara ground out, exasperated. This was worse than two bickering children. She motioned with her hand, indicating they should spin. "Turn around and drop your trousers." She opted for a clinical tone, hoping to get this over with before they started a slap fight or something.

"You can't be serious!" The Doctor said, affronted. "I'm not doing removing my clothing with him here." He hooked a thumb in Malcolm's direction.

"I'm not the one who fucking probes people," Malcolm shot back.

Clara shook her head. "How else do you suggest we do this? If we don't compare birthmarks, my only other suggestion is we pull out a ruler and start measuring body parts."

The Doctor glowered.

While Malcolm gave her a salacious little wink. "No problem here, sweetheart."

"Not _that_ body part. Both of you. Turn. Now," Clara said, using the no-nonsense tone that usually worked.

The Doctor reluctantly gave her his back.

Before Malcolm turned around, he teasingly ran a hand down his chest. "If you wanted a striptease, all you had to do was ask."

She was bemused despite herself. "Shut up."

Dropping his drawers, Malcolm flashed the birthmark at her, unabashedly showing his arse like a practiced stripper, shaking it a bit, too.

Meanwhile, the Doctor slowly peeled his trousers down, only enough to reveal the mark. She got closer, inspecting them.

No doubt about it. They were identical in every way. Damn. This couldn't be good. "Okay, you both have the same mark. Now, zip up," she said.

_Thank God that was over._

Once they'd set themselves to rights, both men turned around.

"So, you two could be twins…for lack of a better term," Clara said, biting her lower lip, thinking about the implications. Twins, from different species born centuries apart. Surely, this couldn't be some sort of fluke.

The Doctor looked troubled. She really hated that look. It usually meant a dangerous threat was coming for them. "Come on, Clara, we need to check the other duplicates and see if they have the same mark. I need to be certain this isn't the only coincidence. We must establish a pattern."

"You are going to what…? Travel around the universe inspecting men's arses?" Malcolm said, with a sneer.

"I'm trying to get to the bottom of this phenomenon," the Doctor snapped and then winced at his unintentional pun.

"Truer words have never been fucking spoken," Malcolm put in. "Where are we off to then?" he said, approaching the TARDIS.

"No one invited you!" the Doctor barked.

"Yeah, well, I'm not letting you run off with Clara again. If that fucking box is really a time machine, you can get me back in time to meet with the PM. So, let's go."

Clara spoke up. "Doctor, this concerns him, too. Besides, Malcolm is clever, _very_ clever. It might help to have another set of eyes on the problem."

She really,_ really_ didn't want to spend the afternoon with The Dueling Bickersons, but Malcolm might be able to offer some added insight. Besides, she was worried about both of them.

What if the Doctor had unintentionally made copies of himself during regeneration? Like she had done when she stepped into his timestream. Time Lords only had one regeneration cycle, what if giving him another, at her insistence, had somehow caused this anomaly? What would it mean for the universe? It was one possibility, among hundreds, but she found it deeply troubling.

The Doctor glowered at the other man, but relented. "Fine. Your little boyfriend can come, but there are rules. He listed them on his fingers. "No being sick, no hanky panky," he said, staring fiercely at Malcolm. "Especially _that_ one. I'm adding another, too. Keep your hands to yourself."

"Fuc—"

"He understands, Doctor," Clara interrupted. She didn't want Malcolm to get kicked off the TARDIS before they'd even gone anywhere.

The Doctor stalked towards the ship and snapped his fingers, so the doors flew open.

Clara gestured to Malcolm so he would go in first.

He stopped in the doorway. "I didn't get a chance to look inside last time." He slowly walked in, gaping at the massive control room. "It's bigger on the inside." There was awe in his voice and he actually grinned. His features relaxed, taking years off him in seconds. "It's amazing."

The Doctor was busy fiddling with switches at the console, but she saw the pleased little smirk on his mouth, just the same. He loved it when people admired his ship. "Okay then, I'm laying in a course for Paris. Cardinal Richelieu, born Armand Jean du Plessis, Duke of Richelieu. Born September 9, 1585 and died December 4, 1642."

"Cardinal Richelieu?" Malcolm said. "I studied him at university, as part of my degree in political science."

"That's very dull," the Doctor said snidely. "Why study him, when you can meet the man? Let's see, what time to choose… it will be easier to compare if he is of a certain age." He laid in the coordinates and the TARDIS began to hum quietly, coming to life.

And off they went…

**12**

_Paris, France_

_June of 1641_

They landed in the Luxembourg Gardens. "I brought us here in stealth mode," the Doctor explained. "We're completely invisible. If my memory serves, humans are obsessed with witchcraft just now. I thought it best not to tempt fate or the Inquisition."

Clara shuddered at the image of them all burning on a pyre. "Good idea. So, is the cardinal here?" she asked.

"Yes, the TARDIS seems to think so. Evidently, he takes an evening walk in the gardens before retiring."

Meanwhile, Malcolm stared at the scanner, slightly disconcerted by the view. Clara understood the confusion. Suddenly being plunged back in time took some getting used to. "We're in Paris in the 1600s?" he said. "Just like that, without a fucking DeLorean?"

Clara nodded.

"Yes, I explained it all in very small words." The Doctor made a disgusted noise. "Do keep up, shouty."

Malcolm shook his head and Clara watched him as he pinched the back of his hand. "We've actually fucking time-traveled, yeah?"

"Yes," she said, with a grin, looping her arm through his and dragging him towards the door. "Let's go see!"

"Wait a minute! Clara, you'll need to change." The Doctor pointed to her outfit. With dismay, she looked down. He had a point. She'd been so eager to show Malcolm the past, she hadn't thought about it. She wore a short skirt, an off the shoulder top. Definitely not a look for this time period. It sort of said_ I'm a loose woman who might or might not cavort with Satan._

"We need a plan, yeah?" Malcolm said sardonically. "I doubt the most powerful man in France will be dropping trou in a public park." He put a fingertip to his lips thoughtfully, studying Clara. "Seeing two futuristic twins would fucking put his knickers in a twist, too."

"He'd probably clap us both in irons," the Doctor said sullenly. "He'd accuse us being spies or witches or both. " Clara knew he hated to admit Malcolm was right, even indirectly.

Malcolm still considered Clara. "Bet he'd love to chat you up. Richelieu is infamous for pursuing young mistresses. And if he's anything like the space magician or myself, you are his type."

"Magician!?" the Doctor sputtered.

"Hang on! I didn't sign up for this!" Clara said, shaking her head.

"I think it might be the only way," Malcolm said spared a glance for the Time Lord. "Unless you can Vulcan death grip him or something?"

"Vulcan what?"

He made an impatient noise. "You know, that one alien with the elf ears."

The Doctor stared at him blankly.

"He buggered that captain guy, you know the one who kept shagging green women."

Clara blinked. "You mean Star Trek?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yeah, that's the one."

"Yeah, that's not what happened in the show," Clara said.

"I'm not a Vulcan. They aren't real. I'm a Time Lord!" the Doctor growled, clearly offended. "I don't have a death grip."

"No, but you can knock people out," Clara said. "Why don't we just abduct him?"

"He has his own private army," the Doctor said, with a shake of his head. He grabbed the scanner and pulled it around. "They are surrounding him now. We'd never make it back to the TARDIS with him. I'm afraid the vulgar duplicate's plan is the only option."

Malcolm grinned triumphantly.

Clara flashed back to the Sheriff of Nottingham. Well, she supposed she could play the _femme fatale_ again if that got them info. "Fine. I'll do it."

"Clara," the Doctor said, tugging at his shirt collar. "I'm afraid you're going to have to convince him to be alone with you. The only time he isn't with his guard, I'm assuming, is when he's…" The Doctor drifted off.

"What?" she asked, a really bad feeling washing over her.

Malcolm explained. "Richelieu won't be alone unless he's doing something private. Taking a piss or a shit, or fucking. Something like that. You are going to have to get…._very_ close to him."

_Yup. Day from hell._

"Fine. Might as well get started." Heaving a put upon sigh, Clara trudged back to the wardrobe to find a suitable gown.

**12**

A half an hour later, Clara returned to find Malcolm and the Doctor on opposite ends of the control room, studiously ignoring one another. The atmosphere was so chilly she was surprised it wasn't snowing. The Doctor seemed very interested in the console, while Malcolm thumbed through his Blackberry.

At least they weren't fighting. That was progress, no?

She'd picked out a crimson frock with a low cut neckline. The TARIS had provided her with some modern-day shapewear in lieu of a corset, but she was still cinched in pretty tight. The ensemble seemed appropriate for a mistress, but she was still unsure about the plan.

They both looked up when they saw her. She got straight to business. "Okay then, so I flirt with him, right? Lure him to his home and you'll what, follow me?"

The Doctor handed her the earpiece she'd used when they'd fought The Boneless. "Take this with you so I can see and hear you. And to answer your question, yes. I will land the TARDIS in his home in stealth mode once you are there."

"What the fuck is that?" Malcolm said, indicating the earpiece, drifting over to them.

"Watch and see." She stuck it in her ear and moved her hair,to cover it. An image of him, from her perspective appeared on the scanners.

He snorted. "Fucking fantastic," Malcolm grumbled. "Me and the space man... we'll be futuristic peeping Toms."

"Let me remind you, this is _your _plan!" the Doctor said.

"Speaking of," Malcolm said. "The cardinal is a powerful man, an influential political figure who actually gets some fucking work done. He has probably been bombarded with offers from women who would like to be his mistress. You are going to have to do something special to attract his attention."

"How special are we talking?" Clara said warily.

"He is used to being flattered, sought after. You need to stand out."

Without a word, the Doctor stalked up the stairs to the gallery and plucked a slim volume from the shelf. He tossed it to Clara. It was a book of Shakespearean sonnets, published in 1609, a first edition. "Here, try reading this and ignoring the cardinal. That should do the trick."

Clara smothered a smile. The Doctor hated it when she ignored _him_. It was a good start. Hopefully, she could pull this off without getting herself accused of witchcraft or having to actually get naked with the cardinal.

She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath and carefully headed for the exit.

**12**

Clara eventually found the cardinal on an ornate marble bench overlooking a fountain. He was surrounded by men in armor and looked deep in thought. He wore a leather tunic, black breeches,and tall black riding boots. To top it off, he rocked a long black and red damask cloak, with an enormous gold cross around his neck. Clara couldn't help but think of the similarity to the Doctor and his penchant for crimson lined black jackets.

There was another bench across from him and she promptly sat down and opened the book. After a few moments of pretending to read sonnet fifty-seven, she could feel the weight of the cardinal's gaze as it swept over her. Clara refused to glance at him, instead, focusing on the page in front of her.

After another few moments and surreptitious glimpses, which she caught out of the corner of her eye, the cardinal walked over to her. "I hate to intrude on you, but what are you reading so intently, mademoiselle?"

Clara smiled behind the pages and lowered the book to glance up at him coyly. "It's Madame, actually," she said. "And I'm reading sonnets, Your Eminence."

She heard Malcolm's voice in her ear, "Easy. Not too eager."

"Ah, so my reputation precedes me," he said smugly because she'd used his title.

She nodded to his men. "Well, you do travel with an unmistakable entourage."

He chuckled. "I suppose I do." He tilted his head to the side, watching her carefully. "From your accent, I presume you are English?"

Clara nodded. "I'm here on holiday." She opened her mouth to tell him her name, but Malcolm stopped her, evidently reading her mind. "Don't. Make him ask."

"And are you going to introduce yourself to me, my dear?" he prompted.

"Clara," she said simply. "Please call me by my first name, Your Eminence."

"You are being very mysterious."

"No, I'm being very cautious," she contradicted.

"Do you have a surname?" he inquired, one eyebrow arching. She couldn't get over his similarity to both Malcolm and the Doctor. It felt like having a conversation with one of them. Only, the cardinal was a bit more deadly.

He was a handsome man, one who exuded both wit and charm. But, he had an underlying aura of menace. Sure, she'd glimpsed a bit of that in the Doctor. When he'd been squaring off with that Dalek, Rusty, but even at his worst, the Doctor still had rules, clung to a moral code. The same with Malcolm. His moral compass might not point due north all the time, but he only turned his malice on those who deserved. While, she got the impression there were very few rules the cardinal wouldn't break.

"Yes, I do have a surname," she said mischievously. "But didn't answer him.

He laughed again. "And you are visiting Paris with your husband?"

Clara blinked, unprepared for the question. The Doctor spoke in her ear. "Say you are a widow. Due to the social conventions of the time, he wouldn't consider you as mistress material if you hadn't had, er, worldy experience."

She stared at the fountain, thinking of Danny. "I'm a widow, Your Eminence." She supposed it was true in some small way.

The cardinal suddenly got a lot friendlier. "May I sit with you, my dear?" he asked smoothly.

Clara waved a hand at the bench. "Please do."

He sat down and moved closer to her, his thigh brushing her skirts.

"I'm so sorry to hear of your loss," the cardinal said, reaching for her hand. He placed it between both of his own, cupping it. Despite, the sentiment, his tone implied just the opposite. "Tell me. Have you come to Paris to heal your broken heart?"

She thought about that a moment. Her heart wasn't broken. Not truly. She felt guilty, yes. She missed Danny terribly. But she didn't feel what she imagined would be the intense pain of losing your soulmate. The only time her heart had crumbled to pieces was over her mother's death.

It was a stunning realization.

Beyond her Gran and her father, had she ever really let someone in? No. Not even the Doctor and certainly not Danny. Over the years, Clara had become an expert at guarding her heart. She had grown colder after mother's death, more distant – afraid of being hurt like that again.

Clara shook her head, cleared it. Now wasn't the time for that sort of maudlin self-reflection. She had a job to do. Eventually, she would have to deal with the implications, but not right now.

"I'm sorry. Did I disturb you, my dear?" He brushed a kiss over her knuckles and she felt a frission of awareness shoot through her body.

Like it not, she found the cardinal attractive, danger and all. Actually, knowing her penchant for thrill-seeking probably because of it.

She blinked. "I'm sorry, just thinking. I'm not certain my heart is broken, Your Eminence. I loved him very much. He was the only man I'd ever let into my heart, at all, but I just gave him a half measure. I didn't love him the way he deserved to be loved." She heard an audible gasp in her ear, that she was pretty certain came from the Doctor.

"Ah, it wasn't a love match, then," he said sagely. Clara remembered that many marriages of the time were more about the joining of property than of people.

"No, it wasn't. Frankly, I think I'm very bad at letting people in." She laughed. "I'm so sorry. I'm just telling you way too much." She glanced down at the ground. Hopefully, her little confession had inspired some trust from the cardinal. She was trying to build a sense of intimacy between them.

"Don't worry, my dear, your secrets are safe with me." Her sentiment hadn't appeared to phase the cardinal at all. In fact,he seemed intrigued. "Are you here searching for another suitor then?"

"Don't say yes to that," Malcolm murmured in her ear.

She settled for an impish smile. "Not exactly."

"Forgive my boldness, but perhaps you are looking for a patron, then?" he said softly.

Clara knew what he was implying. A woman seeking to be a mistress needed a wealthy man, a patron, to offer financial support. "Perhaps."

The cardinal stood up abruptly. "Come then. Perhaps I can assist you with your search. Have dinner with me, Clara." His eyes pinned hers. They were heated.

This was much more than a dinner invitation.

"Of course, Your Eminence."

He offered her his arm, which she took. "Call me Armand, Clara. I have a feeling you and I are about to become very well acquainted."

As the cardinal escorted her to his carriage, Clara grinned triumphantly.

This seduction thing was a piece of chocolate cake. But she couldn't have been more wrong.

**Author's Note:** It took me a bit longer to get to the cardinal than I anticipated, so he will also be in the next chapter. Look for another Capaldi clone, too. :)


	11. Chapter 11

The Cardinal's home was every bit as lavish as Clara had expected.

Paintings hung on the wall, beautiful furnishings filled every room, along with an entire library full of books, which were a luxury for this time period. As he swept her through his home at a breakneck pace, he'd rattled off anecdotes about the artists who'd created the paintings and other minutiae.

Clara only half-listened, she was too intent on executing her plan, hopefully without being executed in the process.

As they finally sat down in adjoining chairs in the library, a young male servant came in with two plates full of freshly baked bread and a selection of cheeses, along with cups of hard cider. He placed them on the small tables on either side of the chairs and left just as quietly as he'd appeared.

"I hope you don't mind," the Cardinal said, flashing a pleasant smile. "I prefer more simple fare in the evenings, when I'm dining alone, and I usually take my meals in here. Your visit is unexpected and my cook did not have time to prepare a more substantial supper."

Clara took a bite of the baguette just to be polite, but she wasn't really interested in eating. "This is wonderful, thank you." She set the plate down on the table.

"Enough of this!" The Doctor growled in her earpiece. "I've landed the TARDIS in the library. Get rid of the guard and then bash him over the head with something. There is no need to go on a real date with that man."

Ignoring the Doctor, she smiled at Armand.

"You should eat, my dear, I believe you will need your strength later this evening," he murmured, his steely blue eyes glinting with playfulness.

_Oh Dear Lord. _

As attractive as she found the Cardinal, she had no intention of getting up close and personal with him. Two men in her life with the same face were more than enough, thank you very much. However, she had two very big problems at the moment. Namely, the two hulking members of his Red Guard, who stood on either side of the library's doors, staring her down.

Clara nodded to the men who maintained fierce expressions as though they expected her to try something. "Are they always with you?" Then, she ate a piece of cheese to placate him.

He glanced at the men. "I'm afraid so. I have a guard at all time. I recently survived an attempt on my life and I'm no longer taking chances with my safety."

She placed a hand on his forearm, patting it compassionately. "I'm so sorry. What happened?" No wonder the man insisted on around the clock sentries.

"Poison," he said evasively. "Let's not discuss something so troubling now." He drew her hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. "Tell me, Clara, are you nervous?"

"Watch yourself, Clara, he's about to pounce on you," Malcolm warned.

"Why would I be nervous?" she said lightly. She didn't want to lead him on, the way she'd done with the Sheriff of Nottingham. For one, she doubted the cardinal would be so easily evaded. Plus, she doubted her own ability to say no. The Sheriff had been repugnant, but the cardinal had a dangerous sort of charm.

In short, this plan was rubbish.

"We both know why you're here," he murmured. "There is no need to be demure. You are looking for a protector and I happen to be in the market for a new mistress. What a fortunate twist of fate."

She widened her eyes, a little shocked at his blasé attitude. He discussed finding a paid bed partner the way she would talk over buying a new sofa or something. She cleared her throat. "Um, how did you come to be in the market for one?"

He gave her another elusive answer. "My former mistress, Adele, and I had a…parting of the ways…over her divided allegiances." There was flint in his gaze now. "I do not tolerate disloyalty, Clara. You would do well to remember that. I require a mistress to be devoted to me and my interests above all else."

"Be careful, Clara," the Doctor said. "According to my records, there was a scandal at the time. Adele Bessette, a young woman about your age, was his mistress for quite a while, but she disappeared under mysterious circumstances and was never heard from again. There are accounts from the time insinuating that she also had a relationship with a young soldier, a Musketeer."

She had an awful feeling something terrible had happened to poor Adele. "I haven't agreed to be your mistress."

He chuckled. "We both know you will." He took a sip of the cider, watching her over the rim of his cup.

"Do we?" she countered.

He leaned forward, his expression wolfish. "I must say, I find your boldness…arousing. I no longer hunger…for food. Perhaps, we will dine after. Right now, I'd like to see much more of you, my dear. Undress for me."

"Now _that_ is fucking bold," Malcolm marveled. "Even by my standards."

"Don't admire his bedroom skills!" the Doctor snapped. "And Clara, don't take off your clothes! Get him alone, so we can end this."

_Ugh._ Neither one of the eavesdroppers was particularly helpful. Frankly, they were both giving her a headache. And evidently the Doctor didn't realize that getting him alone would result in her taking off her clothes...

"Have I rendered you speechless, my dear?" the cardinal said, raising one silver eyebrow. A small, amused smile tugged at his mouth.

Clara fought the urge to slap him. He could probably benefit from it. Might put things into perspective for him. "Hardly."

For a moment, he looked taken aback. "I see you've found your voice once more. Are you telling me you refuse to undress? I must say, recalcitrance is hardly a virtue in a mistress."

"I don't perform for an audience," she said, casting a meaningful glance at his men.

With an elegant wave of his hand, the soldiers turned on their heels and then faced the wall, like two little automatons. "Neither of them will turn around, upon penalty of death," he said, loud enough for his voice to carry. Then, he raked his eyes over her body. "I believe I have corrected the situation, so if you don't mind, I would like to see the charms I'm going to pay for."

_Well…damn._ He had an answer for everything. She pasted on a seductive expression. "I don't want them to hear me either."

Armand licked his lips and she couldn't help but watch the movement. "I'm afraid that is a concern, Clara. I intend to explore you fully, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. I promise you," he said, voice plunging to a throaty growl, "everyone in my household will you listen to your cries as I taste you, take you."

"Who does this bastard think he is?" Malcolm roared, nearly blowing Clara's eardrum and making her wince.

The cardinal had to be another of the Doctor's doppelgangers. Her body's reaction to him was proof positive in her book, but she bet the Doctor would want to verify with the birthmark, anyway. This was rapidly getting out of hand.

"Give yourself to me, Clara, and I'll give you nothing but pleasure."

For a moment, she couldn't think, couldn't speak. She had to admit he painted one hell of a word picture and she couldn't help but imagine what it might be like to let him have his way with her. To quell her wayward thoughts, Clara snagged the cider and drained the cup, but it didn't help. In fact, it just lowered her inhibitions another notch.

_Yep. Rubbish plan._

The cardinal continued to press his case. "Are you nervous then? But no, you can't be. You don't strike me as a conventional woman. You have unfashionably short hair, which I find most intriguing," he said, pausing to capture a few dark strand between his thumb and forefinger. "You are obviously educated, with a tongue sharp enough to hold your own in a disagreement with me. I don't understand your reticence. Unless you think to tease me?" he said, his grip on her hair becoming just shy of painful. "Perhaps up the price I will pay for your charms?"

She was supposed to be seducing him, not making him cross. This was worse than her first date with Danny Pink. "I'm not teasing you, Armand," she said, trying for a honeyed, appeasing tone. "I'm trying to decide whether or not I would like to share your bed."

For a moment, his face registered astonishment before he quickly concealed it beneath a banal mask. "You know I'm a wealthy man. I believe a mistress is most concerned with the size of a man's income, not his physical attributes."

"Not this particular potential mistress," she said smoothly. "I'm more interested in your company, in and out of bed, not your finances."

'Then your former husband was well off? You don't need a source of income?" he questioned, eyes narrowing. "You are searching for companionship?"

"Yes," Clara lied.

"Then I suggest you take a lover, not a protector." He smirked, but she could tell her answer pleased him. She bet women were more interested in the material goods he could give them as well as the power and influence he peddled, rather than the man himself.

"Perhaps _you_ should undress for _me_?" Clara said, with a grin.

His chilly blue eyes filled with unmistakable heat. There was a long, tension-filled pause and then the cardinal got to his feet and took her hand. "Come with me. We'll retire to my bedchamber and disrobe. Then, we shall see if we're well-suited."

Why did that sound like so much fun...?

What was wrong with her? She shouldn't be sitting here, actually contemplating sleeping with him. She had a job to do. He was a man of the cloth, for pity's sake, and perhaps a murderer. If she had any sense, she wouldn't have agreed to this nonsense in the first place.

The Doctor seemed to sense her mood. "Remember, Clara," the Doctor said brusquely. "While the cardinal is a handsome man," he said, with just a touch of smugness, "you are here to determine whether or not he has the same birthmark, nothing more."

Her eyes flicked to the guards. "Are your friends coming, too?"

"They will wait on the other side of my bedchamber door," he conceded.

Clara took his hand and followed him to an enormous room. The guards followed, positioning themselves outside the door. Once inside, he latched it. locking them both in. At her look, he widened his eyes. "You wanted to be alone, did you not?"

She nodded. But a locked door? It would keep the guards out, but her in.

"I'm making certain we aren't interrupted."

"Said the date rapist," Malcolm said, with a snort. "Be ready to whack him over the head."

Along one wall was a vast fireplace and in the center of the room a large, ornate wooden bed. Before she could fully take in her surroundings, he pulled her into his arms and fit his mouth over hers.

Both the Doctor and Malcolm gasped in her ear, clearly disgusted by this turn of events.

It wasn't a tentative, exploratory kiss. It demanded a response and she couldn't help but moan into his mouth, fingers curling into the leather of his doublet. His mustache and beard were surprisingly soft against her lips and chin and gradually his lips slowed, coaxing hers to open rather than demanding. Unable to resist, she opened for him, and his tongue slipped in her mouth, persuading her to respond.

She hated to admit, but he was a good kisser. Okay, maybe a great kisser. He actually made her toes curl. It made her wonder what his kisses would feel like in other...er, areas. When he pulled back, her head was swimming. But she didn't have time to clear it, because Armand kissed a hot path from her jaw to her ear and then down her neck.

Clara couldn't help but shiver. She tried to think of a way to stall him, to find something to bash him like the Doctor said, but she couldn't seem to think straight. Finally, she forced herself to speak "Armand, I think we should—"

"Shh," he murmured. "I don't want you to think. I need you to feel."

"Clara!" the Doctor said sharply. "Stop this or I will!"

Clara was awash in sensation. The cardinal pressed kisses to her collarbone, tasted the hollow of her throat and then his lips hovered over the neckline of her gown, his breath hot over the cleavage exposed to his gaze. She needed his mouth on her breasts...

Suddenly, the TARDIS door burst open, though it was still invisible from the outside, and Malcolm and the Doctor rushed out. The Doctor brandished the sonic like a weapon.

"Get your fucking hands off my woman," Malcolm gritted out.

"_My _woman!" the Doctor countered.

"Fine, _our _woman," Malcolm corrected.

The cardinal stared at both men, dumbstruck

"The point is, there are already two other men in line. Hands off," Malcolm said, prowling closer.

Thankfully, Clara managed to climb out of her stupor. "Keep your voices down!" she hissed. Thankfully, his guards remained oblivious.

Armand, still clutching Clara, stared at his duplicates, taking in their features with rising horror. "What madness is this?"

Clara eased away from him and he let her go, too perplexed to protest. She placed herself between the Doctor and Malcolm. "So, here's the part where I tell you that I'm a time traveler. I came here with the Doctor," she said, pointing to him. "He's an alien and you have the same face. We really aren't sure why, but we need to know if you are an exact match and if you have a birthmark on your behind." Clara was aware that was a lot of information, but honestly, it wasn't like breaking it to him easy was an option anymore. Not with the visual proof right in front of his very eyes.

The Cardinal backed away from all of them. "I have succumbed to some madness or an enchantment." He kept retreating towards the door. His eyes rested on Clara. "You! This must be your doing. You have bewitched me!"

"Oh, sure, blame the woman," she griped.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Enough of this nonsense." He rushed towards the cardinal and touched his forehead, sending the other man tumbling to the ground. "Clara, would you be so good as to check for the birthmark?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "No. I'm the one who did all the heavy lifting on this operation. I've seen enough arses for one day. One of you can check if he has the mark."

With that pronouncement, she marched into the TARDIS, leaving them to squabble.

**12**

An hour later, they were drifting in space. The Doctor had examined Armand and discovered the same birthmark on his buttocks. They'd left him peacefully snoozing on the floor of his bedroom, with just a bit of his memory redacted. Malcolm, after verifying once more he could get back in time for his appointment with the PM, had asked for a room on board until they got to the bottom of the situation, and the Doctor had reluctantly agreed. Malcolm had gone off to answer some voicemail messages and get a shower.

The Doctor stood at the blackboard. The impossible man doing impossible equations, Clara mused.

"Are you okay?" she asked, placing a soothing hand on his arm.

"No," he said, frowning. "Why would I be okay? I have duplicates running around the universe and a romantic rival staying under my own roof."

Clara couldn't help but chuckle. He really didn't understand human social interaction. A human would have told her everything was fine, regardless if it was or not. "Do you need anything?"

He shook his head. "I just need to quite literally do the math on this one. We will be visiting other copies tomorrow," he informed her. "The TARDIS is currently performing a search for them."

"And then what?"

"I need to discover how this occurred," the Doctor answered, still focusing on his blackboard. "Then, I will determine if there are any dangers associated with these anomalies."

"Well, there shouldn't be, right?" Clara asked, frowning. "It's just like my echoes. They aren't dangerous."

"_You_ aren't a Time Lord," he pointed out. "There could be unforeseeable consequences to my doppelgangers. Besides, we know exactly where your echoes originated, we still don't know what caused this or why."

"But—"

The Doctor turned to face her finally. "I know you're concerned about your pudding brain boyfriend, but I really need to finish these equations. I will see you in the morning and by then I should have more answers for you."

He was right. She should let him work. "I'm concerned about you, too, you know."

"Are you?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Of course I am." Why would he think otherwise?

"I will be fine, regardless, Clara. I took care of myself for hundreds of years on Trenzalore. Besides, surely it must have occurred to you, that it would be much easier to have a relationship with a human version of me, Clara."

"I'm sure it would be," she conceded. No point in lying.

He turned away from her, gripping the chalk in his hand, suddenly cold. "I can drop you and your…lover off on earth tomorrow than."

"Malcolm isn't my lover," Clara said firmly. "Not yet…not fully." She sighed. "I'm still…confused. I have feelings for both of you."

He stared at the board. "But he is human. He can share your life, grow old with you. You will ultimately choose him."

"You can't know that, because_ I_ don't know that."

"Human women need that promise of a normal life. They want a home, children."

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the board, pushing herself deliberately into his line of sight. "You know, I think you are saying this to someone else, not me. Which woman chose a human duplicate over you?"

He finally met her eyes. "It wasn't a duplicate. There was a metacrisis…" he broke off. "This is all ancient history and a very long story, but believe me I know_ exactly_ how this one will end."

"Really? Because I don't." Before he could say another word, she clutched at his lapels and pulled him down for a kiss, putting what she felt into actions rather than words.

He was still at first, not responding, and then he groaned, clutching her closer. She wrapped her arms around his waist and then pressed her head against his chest when the kiss ended.

"I feel very…_possessive_ of you, Clara. I _care_ for you."

"I'm your carer," she whispered. "Always have been, always will be."

He chuckled. "Good to know." He kissed the top of her head. "Why don't you get some rest, while I figure this out?"

"Goodnight, Doctor," she said, as she reluctantly left the circle of his arms and drifted towards the hallway.

"Goodnight, Impossible Girl."

**12**

When Clara reached her room, she immediately pulled off the long gown and exchanged it for a pink cotton nightgown, which fell just above the knee. It felt good to be in modern clothes once more. Moments later, she heard a knock on her door and found Malcolm looking disheveled and worn out. His coat was torn and he had a bruise forming on one side of his face.

"What happened to you?" she asked as she pulled him inside.

"That room is fucking spooky," he pronounced. "Full of flickering horror movie lights, groaning noises, and then the fucking panthers came out of the closets, like Wild Kingdom in there."

"They chased you?"

"Yes. Up and down corridors. The bastards bit my clothes!" he growled, showing her the shredded sleeve of his jacket. "This is fucking Armani!"

Clara shook her head. She couldn't even pretend to be surprised. For someone who was two thousand years old, the Doctor had a serious petty streak. He'd probably asked the TARDIS to make the room uncomfortable. Either that or the TARDIS did it all on her own, not that Clara was surprised by that either. For a machine, it was kind of bitchy.

"I'm so sorry! Why don't you stay with me tonight?"

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted.

"Alert!" the TARDIS said, as a hologram version of the Doctor appeared at the end of her bed. "Visual interface activated. Malcolm Tucker," the wavering image said, pointing to Malcolm, "is not permitted in Clara Oswald's room."

"Oh my God," Clara said, mouth falling open. "He warded my room."

"He's a stalker," Malcolm said, staring at the hologram with disdain. "The smart move would be to let him down easy and come away with me, sweetheart."

She ignored the comment. "Hey, I want you to try something," Clara whispered. "Say 'voice authentication'," she prompted.

"Voice authentication," Malcolm said, speaking to the Doctor's image.

"Voice recognized," The TARDIS acknowledged crisply, using the Doctor's hologram. "As the Doctor."

"The TARDIS thinks you're the Doctor!" Clara said gleefully.

Malcolm looked green about the gills, as if he might vomit.

Then Clara frowned. "Well, it thinks you are both Malcolm and the Doctor."

The visual interface spoke again. "If Malcolm Tucker does not leave within one minute, twenty-two seconds, the Doctor will be notified and countermeasures will be taken."

Countermeasures? That sounded really bad. "Tell it to disengage the ward," she said to Malcolm.

Doubtfully, he stared at the hologram. "Disengage the ward. Malcolm Tucker is permitted in Clara Oswald's room."

"Acknowledged," the Doctor's image said, before disappearing.

Malcolm sat down heavily on the edge of her bed, sighing. He ran a hand through his hair. She'd never seen him look so lost.

"Everything alright?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, your fucking space boyfriend took a piss all over my life. I'm one of that bastard's duplicates. I'm fucking Pinocchio and I only thought I was a real boy my entire life."

"You _are_ real," Clara insisted.

"No, I'm a sweary, shouty copy of that smug bastard."

"Visual interface," Clara prompted and the Doctor's hologram appeared once more. "Switch image to Oswin Oswald." The hologram morphed into a version of Clara, wearing a futuristic crimson dress.

"You have copies as well? What the fuck is going on? Is this freaky fucking Friday and I didn't get the memo?"

"I have echoes," she admitted. "Its a really long story, but i will give you the highlights. I stepped into the Doctor's timestream to save him and, in the process, versions of me were made. This is Oswin. She had a commission on the starship Alaska and ended up being marooned on the Dalek Asylum, where she died saving the Doctor. But that isn't the point, Oswin might be a version of me, but she isn't me. Get it?"

"Not a fucking clue what you just said," Malcolm said, staring at the hologram with a fierce scowl.

"Oswin is an echo but she had her own life. She had a family of her own, her own hopes and dream, and apparently, according to the Doctor, she was a screaming genius as well. You might be a version of the Doctor, but you are your own person, with your own talents and goals. What I'm trying to say is, you are a real person."

"Thank you for the pep talk and sharing all of it, but the last thing I feel is real right now." Malcolm dragged a hand down his face. She could see the vein at his left temple throbbing and what looked like deep bruises beneath his eyes from sleep deprivation.

Clara straddled him and pushed the ruined coat from his shoulders. "I think you just need some rest." Then she undid his tie, and looped it around her own neck once he was free of it. "It will put things in perspective."

He nodded, but he seemed utterly spent, exhausted. "Maybe, but I think I need a stiff drink, a mini break, and some slow and easy sex to get past this."

"The sleep will have to do for now," she said with a laugh. She plucked the cuff-links from his sleeves and placed them on the nightstand, before unbuttoning his white shirt.

"You're wriggling on my lap in your nightie, stripping me down, and I'm flaccid as an old tire right now," he grouched. "Good this get any more fucking humiliating?"

_That_ explained why she hadn't felt a bulge. Not that she minded. "Would it help to know I'm not wearing knickers?" she teased.

He groaned. "_Oh, fuck me_! Now, you're just being cruel, sweetheart."

Clara laughed. She'd had a long day and sex wasn't even on the menu. She kissed his mouth, softly. "Don't worry about it. I just want to go to bed. I'm worn out, too.""

"Easier said…" he grumbled. "I'll look back on this tomorrow and fucking cringe."

" Everything will look better tomorrow morning." She tugged at his shirt and then his trousers, leaving him in his pants. Together, they curled up in her bed, settling the covers over them both. "I promise."

"We'll do this again when I'm not drained, yeah?"

"Of course."

Evidently contented with that promise, Malcolm was fast asleep in seconds and she rested her head on his chest, listening to his one heartbeat, his even breaths.

She was hopelessly torn between two very different but achingly similar men. Both of them fulfilled different needs she had. Somehow, she couldn't imagine giving either of them up, but she would inevitably have to.

Sleep was a long time coming.


End file.
